With resident white mallard
On a seasonal sabbatical,
A newly arrived black cormorant
Struts and preens on the central island
Of Radnor Park’s fishing lake,
While ravenous pigeons wrestle
Over scarce, illicit bread stocks.
No more anglers cast silent floats
On the teeming duck infested waters;
No rods and bait filled baskets
Bestrew the narrow concrete path,
Forcing me to trudge through
The muddied grassy verge
As a pair of greedy gulls stamp
Feet to tantalise tender worms.
A limpid sun shines apologetically
Above the mock Tudor tea rooms;
Nurses from near minor injury unit
Snatch fag breaks on the corner
Where discarded dog ends,
And twigs from overhanging trees,
Entice the ducks into mistaking
Them for a flavoursome breakfast,
(The fags and twigs, not the nurses).
After a day when few people pass
To witness the birdlife bedlam,
Dusk descends on a noiseless scene,
And a serene moon declines
Over Cheriton Road rooftops;
And in the littered concrete shelter,
Where youths habitually congregate
To drink and smoke and lark about,
There is neither light nor sound,
No need here for an enforced curfew.
Tony Quarrington 