In praise of city starlings Bloomin’ starlings, what a racket, Mum always grumbled if we were in town when you arrived, heard you above car horns and screeching brakes but I loved you, freckle-feathered Brummie-birds. Convoys of cheeky chatterers, slick-winged gliders on flight paths for bright lights and bare roof-tops.
Sleep in the flesh, woven into the blood, following it upstream then down to slumber. Malaise in the mind –– fractured thoughts unhooked from their sparking off point. Restless limbs and aching lips. The longing to be held like a sick child; to be carried to bed like a lover. To wake