Greed
Flocks of people?
Send them to the wretched realm of consumerism
Where they belong
The season belongs to me and the crow
He yammered on a damp, rotting, bench
Fuelled by a Sixer of white tiger
The heath was still in a pre-Christmas lull
And the frigid, frosted earth
Belonged to the stalking steps
Of red webbed feet and black talons
Christmas doesn’t belong to you
I whispered from my clear-cut path
To the caff
Only the slow rotting of organic matter
And the absence of memory
Happy Christmas to you, too,
He gave a husky salute
As if reading the words from my lips
Slipping for a moment from my well-defined ways
I made my way to him
Crunching over the iced spires of tufted grass
Guessing the build of his demise
It belongs to all here, I shouted
The robin, the goose, the water vole
Even the parrots, those late customers
From down south
They don’t belong here
He grumbled beneath a thicket of grey beard
But they are here
I laughed him up
But he sank down like a chilled worm
Into his piss stained tweed
GREED! He roared
Greed, I repeated softly
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