Look

Look

You've lost your look
It used to hang around you
Not quite like a transcendental aura
More like a can of beans
Ready to be slopped
Upon a white, Pyrex plate
With a few Lincolnshire sausages
A medium sized free range egg
And a slice of toast
... A strong cuppa cha
To wash it down
And lamented upon
For the rest of the day

The Sun

The sun is blood
And it holds time
Not like the chilled 
Atlantic winds
Dispelling all
But the will to sleep
Its photons fall
Like shot
From universal lips
And are absorbed
By flowered faces raised
In fragments crisp
And universal sips 

The Pink tufted cuckoo

As nobody had officially sighted one for over twenty years, the pink tufted cuckoo, it was assumed, was no more. Bruce ‘bird-snatch’ Jones had taken on the position of proving otherwise, he had made it his life’s work to crawl through every bush, hedge row and heath in the country in order to find at least a trace of the allusive bird. Many a fellow bird watcher criticised his efforts as being futile but Bruce bird-snatch Jones did not see it so, for Bruce, this all consuming pursuit, if successful, would be his road to Shangri-la. Bruce’s ambition was to go down in history as the man who singlehandedly resurrected the pink tufted cuckoo; he would build theme parks filled with aviaries, he would write books, travel the globe giving lectures and TV interviews, he would create a new fund raising charity exclusively for the bird. His name would become immortalised, at least in the world of bird lovers.

On a mild, chirpy spring morning a ten year old boy, who was later to be known as little Tim ‘cuckoo- finder’ Bucton, ambled into a small enclosure of grass and trees locally known as a park, just off hackney road, London, and took several photos of some of the many breeding pairs of pink tufted cuckoos to be found there. His father, being a keen bird watcher himself, instantly recognised the significance of the find; a press conference was arranged followed up by many TV interviews and magazine articles. While Bruce ‘bird- snatch’ Jones’s face could still frequently be seen emerging stung and torn from the bramble ridden hedgerows of Dorset, Tim ‘cuckoo finder’ Bucton’s name was being assured its place in history.

The locals of the Dorset village which Bruce had chosen as a base for his operations were very aware of his cuckoo- hunting antics. They, too, regarded the obsessive nature of his quest with cynicism and mirth. When Bruce made his bi-monthly appearance at the ‘Dead Cuckoo,’ they were already eight days aware of Tim’s London triumph and had prepared, for Bruce, an evening of gradated mocking culminating with the presentation to him of a recent magazine article in Country Life which included a full page image of Tim ‘cuckoo- finder’ Bucton sat on a park bench with a pink tufted cuckoo sat inquisitively upon his shoulder. Later that same night, Bruce was to be found on the steps of the Dead Cuckoo, head in hands, having been barred for aggressive and drunken behaviour. The following day, he returned, by train, to London. Before entering his flat, Bruce stopped off at the small park situated behind his garden wall and beneath his bedroom window, but the park was closed. Tied to the gate was a laminated poster upon which was written an explanatory message which read:

   

 Dear Public,

    Due to the recent rediscovery by tim ‘cuckoo- finder’       bucton, of the ‘pink tufted cuckoo’ in this park, The park is closed until further notice.

    We apologise for any inconvenience,

              Hackney council.

        

Pretty Soon!

Hair cut

Hair cut has pinned you down

Taken you out of the frame

And spruced you up

Placed you back in

New and updated

Now the world will

See you as a contender

Although

In truth

You were always

A pretender