He walks with his hands in his pockets
teacher presence across the lawn
hoping for a wriggle or scamper.
His days are yearning for something
longing to be free of the chains we
have put upon him. The nuts and
stale bread, scraps, broken bits
biscuits, crackers, browning apples
that I hand grenade onto the shed roof:
He depends on us, nests in old chimney pots.
Barks on road edges, lay-by’s, empty car parks
in early morning. He is the cloak wearer
the forgotten stars of the night. He is just
a peasant, a scavenger, that once roamed
wild fruit bushes and trees.
The black death is hopping amongst us.
Standing on our guttering and streets.
But still we carry on, thinking all is well.
By Gareth Culshaw
Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.
Photo of carrion crow by Michael Lane