Thursday, 14 June 2012

On the Verge

A couple of crows are scurrying on the grass verge
Fighting, squabbling
Grabbing what they can
Noisily quarrelling

The blind cars shoot passed
Defying the speed limit
Eyes forward
Following narrow tramlines within feet of the battle

What was it once?
That muddy block of fur
A fox, a cat, something more exotic?
That mauled slab of meat barely recognisable now

The car's passengers are dozing
Or squabbling about nothing
Anyway not noticing
The blind fight for survival

A white flash of fur
Is pecked at by one crow
It must have been a badger

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