re POEM 19

A Salford District

A Foster beer can, Walkers crisp wrapper,

left-hand leather glove and a disabled umbrella

looking like a treehouse crumbled in a Tornado,

scattered by the banks of the canal, strewn

between mottled ducks traveling at yoga pace

with the poise of a sublime Buddha. I even

suspect that these creatures are laughing

with incredulity at the profanity of human

split-second decisions; indifference in this fringe

of cobbled urban space. Or it could be they

are tanked on leaked 4.5% beverage - a leverage

in seeing roses instead of debris.

Catherine Mark