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THE
EVENING SACRIFICE

Swifts,
as sharp
as ebony boomerangs,
fling themselves around
above the tall pines;
bats
are doing barrel rolls,
setting themselves up for
serious back problems
in later life.
There's
carnage in
the evening air - ugly insects
are going down like flies.
Crows are daylight bombers

heading
back to base, but swifts
with their long-range tanks
can stay on the wing all night,
picking off defenceless things.
Like
a plague of boils,
molehills disfigure
our
lawn; on baby marrows
slugs
are itinerant scabs.
Indoors
the oven sets a lamb's
body-part a-crackling, the fork
slides in, the juddering knife
whacks off strip after strip.
On
the sideboard squats
that rancid goatskin lamp
some accursed auntie brought
us back from Egypt as a gift,
while
soft internal organs perform
their duty without question:
dispensing hydrochloric acid,
getting rid of the evidence.
from
Wild Star Flight
first published in Anon One
ROSLIN
GLEN
A
seed, a shoot, a leaf
A scrap, a sheet, a sheaf
A
rumpus, a twitter, a wren
A loner, a saunter, a glen
A
branch, a leap, a flight
A squirrel, a squirrel, a fight
A
rock, a face, a shape
A tiger, an ogre, an ape

A stone, a stream, a slip
A shoe, a sock, a drip
A
fox, a scent, a prowl
A sunset, a silence, an owl
A
path, a plan, a way
A wood, a world, a day
A
page, a quire, a ream
A tree, a thought, a dream

Bird
Chat At Evening

I
I
am Blackbird.
This is my busy time,
if you'll excuse me -
I've got all these leaves
to sort through
before nightfall.
What
am I looking for?
A worm as long as a snake
a grub as fat as a catkin
and something else -
I can't remember what, but
I'll know when I've found it.
What are you
looking for?

II
I
am Robin. Blackbird
is my cousin. I know you!
You have been kind to us
in the past - it's all here
in your file, which makes
fascinating reading, by the way.
I'm
always close at hand
in case you need me.
I spy, with my little eye,
the sadness in your heart
and bring small messages
from lost loved ones.
Is there to be any
reply at all?
The
Flamingo
Flamingos
dress in fetching pink
but can be rather glum,

Their
legs being made of plastic tubes
and bits of chewing gum.
from
An Absird Book of Burds
illustrated
by John
Fardell whose children's novel -
The
Seven Professors of the Far North
was
published by Faber
in 2004
THE
ORIGINAL (SELKIRK)
AND THE ALTERNATIVE GRACE
(with
apologies to the Bard)
Some
hae meat and canna eat
And some wad eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
But
some hate meat and girn and weep,
Resisting all coercion,
So bless the tatties, bless the neeps
And the vegetarian version.
Then
filled wi' fruits o' field and vine
And feelin fairlie frisky,
The One who water turned to wine,
We'd ask to bless the whisky.
THE
POET WRITES HOME
He
has nothing much to write home about.
He writes home about nothing much.
Nothing he writes home is about much.
He writes home much about nothing.
Nothing
much he writes is about home.
Much he writes about home is nothing.
Nothing he writes about home is much.
He writes nothing much about home.
He
writes: 'Much about home is nothing.'
'Home is about nothing much,' he writes.
'Nothing about home is much,' he writes.
'Home is about nothing!' he writes much.
Home's
about: 'Nothing he writes is much.'
Home's about: 'Much he writes is nothing.'
Home's about: 'He writes nothing much,
he's nothing much to write home about.'
all
poems by Richard Medrington
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