at dawn a team of trench coated crows
solemn as a forensic squad
stalk the new mown grass lines for discarded body parts
ignoring black clad joggers
plugged into their separate realities
who scuff plough dusty paths in parallel to the municipal track
as they pass the shifty dog shit sitters
urgently rustling plastic bags
anxious to cue their charges to produce in a convenient location
mist clings ever hopefully chaotic to our aviator sky
but mother, with her wired up toothless jaw
like London trees is dry.
Maj
Ikle June 2013
