Feeding the Ducks
Squares of yellow light
shine through the grey, and at our feet
a flurry of homing birds. A moorhen darts
next to a white edifice of swan. Geese
stand and wait. You know so little yet
of time or winter. What can you make of this?
And meanwhile over us, this swoop and scream of gulls
beating the sky for crumbs. Low to the water
something catches; ducks skid to a stop like skaters.
On the footpath spattered green with shit
a goose inclines its neck. I throw my broken bread
and the air is one long screech.
I press a piece of crust
between your fingers, mime a throw,
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