Making Money In Wombwell
Sow seeds for cash crop of songbirds to sell to Gypsies.
Prime pressure pads, conceal cages cunningly woven with leaves
wound around their bars, high up in the boughs of apple trees.
Put black bitch Patterdale Terrier into barn after barn, farm
Face a crosshatch of rat bite scars she whirls in dust and
straw; gore flecked,
setting teeth on edge, with her shrieks amongst the squeals.
Two Robins. Two Wrens, tiny tails like unfurled fans: Blue Tit,
Blackbird, liquid eyed behind a sprung shut cage door,
swelling, swelling the orchard with song.
If you have any comments on this poem, David Smedley
would be pleased to hear from you.