The Geese


They rode the dawn on honeyed wings, with fog, in shreds around them, rising,
Voices borne of fairground-organ bellow-pumps extemporising,
In a ragged ‘V’ that cut its wake through last night’s silver clouds,
Then landed, gently, one by one, in sand dunes draped with misty shrouds,
Noisy, car-horned, bright pink-footed, snooty beaks thrust in the air,
Like tourists from the Ladies’ Guild come down from Weston Super Mare,
They gossiped, preened, looked down their noses; argued, shuddered, honked and screeched;
And once they’d stretched their stubby legs, they waddled off towards the beach.


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