Wildlife crossing signs, red-rimmed,
appeared after the last brood lost
numbers, yellow-downed and broken
under wheels. Now cars wait while those waiting
at the bus stop take video on their phones,
people step into the road with hands
held up, a rare excuse to chat to someone they
don’t know, breach the social distancing rules,
momentarily. They’re taking their time!
Horns used by people who don’t drive past here
much. Aren’t people impatient! An adult on
either side, brown feathers white-bordered
like fungus. A thing that lives, despite
all – this. Parading, sauntering, strutting,
you could make an argument
for any of these verbs.
The flexion of their black rope necks,
beaks tapping at the air, ushering
the goslings up the kerb. They nibble
the grass and weeds in front of St John’s Church,
the big ones standing by like first-time
parents at a play group. Back in the pond,
uneaten white bread floats on scum. A meagre
little oasis. Have a gander at this then.