MAGPIE AT THE WINDOW

This is a rewrite. You can read the last version here.

Next to the surgery

which used to be someone’s home,

the bank [built in ‘31] missed out

on its century of service by fourteen years,

another high street casualty.

Note the sale boards have been removed

and the new signs proclaim wealth management.

But who’s? I wonder this Sunday

as I walk past the locked off parking spaces

where on public days like this one

the community used to park.

Their bin overflows and the gulls

have had their own wing-ding,

bursting the black plastic sacks.

Now the remains of their office party

clutters the pavement.

Optimistic, a young gull sidles up

to glean whatever is left.

I want to tell it not to bother,

that the wealthy don’t leave rich pickings,

but the bird is too young to know

that no meal is ever free.

The latest version came about because I stumbled over some of the words when I was practising reading the poem aloud. If you have difficulty consistently over reading a sequence of words then it needs to be changed. I wanted to read the poem at Stanza Extravaganza here in Torquay and it is always a good idea to have a read through.. 
The poem also lost its last line as I thought it was too telling rather than showing.

This poem was written at Marjons and is once again about the magpies that run the place.

magpie at the window

nano second hover

as strobing feathers

defy physics

the captains keep tabs on

each lecture space and office

oblivious we think we own the place

The world is more mysterious than we can ever know and birds have been around far longer than us monkeys.

Here is a new song from Fay Wildhagen and Ana Brun.

Until next time.

THE UNACKNOWLEDGED

Strangely the "thousands of pounds", by which my MP claims her constituents are better off under the draconian austerity of the Conservative government, has to arrive at my house...

Keen readers will know of my love for Catalunya and the Iberian Peninsula in general. Here are some other Barcelona inspired poems. 
Today's poem [title-less yet again] mentions The Cafe Zurich, a well known meeting spot and place to watch the world go by.

I'm in the Café Zurich, under the famous clock,

through the windows Barcelona is a festival of brollies

beneath in the February sleet.

The constant rush hour of Plaça de Catalunya

is hardly dented by the fleeting winter weather.

In liminal spaces, the unacknowledged

sell cheap umbrellas to people racing time.

When I was last here in June

the trade was in fake handbags and sunglasses,

laid on a cloth that could be bundled up

if the Guarda Civil walked by.

Each season has its own crop.

You arrive, we kiss, and step outside,

just two stories among many.

As I am writing about Catalunya I have to comment on the high handed manner in which Madrid has dealt with the Catalans. I fear that if Catalunya gained independence they would be in the same limbo as the UK is over Brexit. But come on Madrid! You can't just lock up the whole of the elected government!

Here is Ana Brun from her new LP of covers.

Until next time.