National Poetry Month: Day 25

Some of the carcasses I saw

Pity brown feathers which line
the pine-needled pathways of Alfred’s wood;
their breast is lining now the belly
of the smelly feral cat who is up to no good.

On rocky beach in middle sector Wales,
between the shales and pebbles lies a hulk
of a porpoise lost on the hostile land,
his planned route unfit for his bulk.

And bloated waxy pale like uncooked dough
we didn’t know he was a man to begin:
but his beard in the water waved like trees,
like our knees as we knew he’d been done in.

– Delilah Des Anges

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Throughout this month I will be nagging readers to donate to MSF

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