Sunday, 6 December 2009

Rough Shag

Cold and early at the grey lake
the Canada Geese have flown in
marginalising the mallards
to float with coots in reeds.
On a dead branch
sits a dark, bedraggled seabird
a long way from port,
battered wings outstretched in the pale sun.
"Fancy" I said "a Shag.
A bit of a rough one..."
The twitcher next to me,
bearded, bellied and bald of pate
said "Not my kind of thing, mate.
Try Gerry over there".
He gave his mouth a wipe
then sucked again
his aromatic pipe.

c. Marc Woodward

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