Mud-larking 153

If he lights upon the mossy stone
this grey fragment of sky as if to kiss
his beak will pry and feet will comb
our feathered dandy seeks not to hide in mist
but still, in wet amongst the muck he strives
hopping about reflecting the gold rings of his eyes

 clay pipes, broken patent bottles
blue inkwells and brass buttons
the dull conspiracy of rubbish turned
 to secret doors to the naked life
 of those gone by
       and were we to tell
the secrets that we could sell
  I push history up hill
      and the birds will not even notice
 unless a little splash or swirl
            brings the present out
            of the past

   We watched for
       the sun and he did not
           forge a mighty wheel
 To the Medford and Thames
       over all and to the Tiber with him
       like a forgetful emperor
                sleeping on
             a park bench
                                     -- Reynard Crigg