sweet birds sing softly
and crow-music crackles,
their dumb, unlettered cawing
which tears the air to pieces,
like pages from old notebooks
and my vaguely
versing words. on the far

northside end-point
of the malahide road
near darndale, the airport
and the M50
motorway, a bus
pushes traffic
like a dog
in a flowerpatch, and on dirty

wasteground patches
across from hotels
and busy crossroads
horses stomp restless
with their noses in nettlepatches.
their tails scrape
skinny counterpoints
on their xylophonic ribs.

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