Saturday, 3 November 2007

Walking With Steve

Walking between Tea and Supper

The last year in the Sixth
was like the first year or the last man:

together they walked
through the Highgate Autumn
alienated, sick
of poems in school magazines
about treading down
falling leaves.

Crossed Waterlow Park
on slanting paths
towards the myna birds, rolling
a weed, studiously observing them
through rusty, spangled wire -
yellow eyes’ alertness
in a night of coal-black feathers,

and as the chill wind blew,
trying to teach them:
“Fuck off, fuck off……”
The wise birds
watched them, non-compliant
indifferent auguries,
and with the aloofness
the caged often have.


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