When I got there
I saw eight magpies on one plot,
one perched on a cane or a pole,
they let me get quite near;
it was raining, no-one else
around. I guess the wrens
and long ago hoards of small birds
are edged out. I half hate
these big survivors, half love
their beauty when I see them,
close, by the four foot pink
and off-pink bush; what is it?
I got digging, the odd whinny
of a horse was all this inner city
garden had on its grey six-thirty
soundtrack, as slowly the church
and houses on the hill
sank below street lights;
I had to get out.
Nicholas Bradley, 2004