First it came for the canaries. At eight,
The cages were closed by spinsters and widows,
The water trays full, the seed bowls overflowing.
By the time daylight edged through the nets,
The soft furnishings were soaked with sanguine nerves,
The lavender nightdresses shredded, the urns
Of late husbands overturned. The newspapers
Amused us with a three-line story, the gory holes
Feathered with a feature writer’s hyperbole. Next it came
For domestic fowl, the old English game and geese
That goose-stepped around the rose garden,
Saluting seagulls with a sideways grin, garnering arms
From the farmer’s barn, while his body lay
Disembowelled in the bath. When it came
For the blue birds, the white cliffs blushed burgundy,
The Dour bled shadows into the Channel.
At cock-crow on the seventh day, the ravens abandoned
The Tower to take their meat on Cable Street,
While eagles nested on the eyries of steeples
Grinning like gargoyles, guarding village greens.
When it comes for you, carrion, it nose-dives
For the unprotected eyes, the viscous treats
Of vitreous humour make it hoot. At night,
Keep an ear out for the knock on wood,
The beak against boarded-up doors, a black bead
Gleaming bleakly through the broken window pane.
The cages were closed by spinsters and widows,
The water trays full, the seed bowls overflowing.
By the time daylight edged through the nets,
The soft furnishings were soaked with sanguine nerves,
The lavender nightdresses shredded, the urns
Of late husbands overturned. The newspapers
Amused us with a three-line story, the gory holes
Feathered with a feature writer’s hyperbole. Next it came
For domestic fowl, the old English game and geese
That goose-stepped around the rose garden,
Saluting seagulls with a sideways grin, garnering arms
From the farmer’s barn, while his body lay
Disembowelled in the bath. When it came
For the blue birds, the white cliffs blushed burgundy,
The Dour bled shadows into the Channel.
At cock-crow on the seventh day, the ravens abandoned
The Tower to take their meat on Cable Street,
While eagles nested on the eyries of steeples
Grinning like gargoyles, guarding village greens.
When it comes for you, carrion, it nose-dives
For the unprotected eyes, the viscous treats
Of vitreous humour make it hoot. At night,
Keep an ear out for the knock on wood,
The beak against boarded-up doors, a black bead
Gleaming bleakly through the broken window pane.