A small boy is digging in the Autumn sand.
Ships pass in the deep channel. Someone
has made a stand of driftwood twigs topped
with modest baubles. Directly below us
on the sandstone rocks is a dead buzzard
spread eagled – yes, almost literally
the right word – its head gone or hidden,
its exposed viscera gnawed, its talons
limp. We are humans therefore forensic
so discuss the causes of the bird’s demise
and mutilation: low flying aircraft, rats?
Some spring tide will lift whatever remains
of the magnificent black tipped wingspan
out into the oceans.