The Bird Museum

Little they are;
Flap, Flap.
Squawk.

Stone-faced mechanics.
Stone-filled gizzards.

The God's pretty creatures.
Rapidly, rapidly,
Snap,

Bone beaked sullen.

Classified and measured,
Cased and homed
In settled nests.

Darling exhibits
Of the Sunday afternoon
Gallow walks.

Curiosities,
Put away 'til next year,
When August sweats alone.

They are gathered up
In bundles, clothed in white,
Locked in glass.

When the light returns,
They wake up
And sing.


Ben Morgan
ben@kemptown.co.uk


Also by Ben....
The Claws of Death
Whatever Happened to Mutley?

Random Driftwood
One : Two : Three


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