once I watched
just after
dusk
a huge
flock of birds
fly massively from
an old mildewed
pier.
deserted it was;
the
pier I mean.
it had sat there
in its
stinking mould
for many
years,
friendless and
alone.
then the birds,
crows I’m sure,
(though they say crows
only roost in
trees)
detached themselves
from the dark
silhouette
and skimmed the
sky.
as one small
flock
passed overhead
a single
cry
was uttered.
it pierced my
brain
like
an ice-cold
dart,
bringing back
the
pain
of a young
and gentle
whore,
new to life’s dirty
games
who, bloody and
battered,
picked herself up
from where she
lay
on an old
mattress
in some
alleyway
and went limping
home-
--back to her pimp
who would beat
her again.

if only the
crow
had known
what memories
he would
stir
maybe he wouldn’t have
made a sound
as he flew through
the night’s
dark
air.