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In iron-hearted February –
That bone--incising cold! that frost! –
All seeds, all slugs and the last berry
Long eaten, magpies, proud
But starved for scrap or crust,
Deign statelily to strut my yard
Seizing the pigeons’ perks of tossed out bread.
Those black-coped muggers, flashed with blue
And green, their broadsword tails like threats,
Ignore the pigeons’ huff and mow,
Thieving those torn-up scraps
Which later-year they’d nitch,
Though poised for human sight or steps,
Rushing with clatter-cries to the bare trees’ tops.
Gulls, though, are trumps! One, dropping down,
Claims gull rights, wolfing fast. The ’pies
Fall back, enraged, their status gone,
White belly feathers raised:
That gull taught being’s truths –
The bigger bully feeds; deprived,
The rest must crave, searching what’s dried and bruised.
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© March 2025
