They Were Getting Off At New Street.

A train of Jackdaws

hopped on stiletto claw on board

the fifteen forty out of Wolverhampton,

bob tails waggling, beaks opening with wild

inquisitive shrills,

their voices

displaying nothing but the search for worms

in the dirt, the mud a step too far

for the preening old birds

with florescent feathers,

the odd battle scar where the edges were ripped

as they tussled and tore at life…

Finding water

unpalatable, the inexhaustible selfie

drags itself once more into existence

and the high pitched squeal of bird like delight

as feathers ruffle

and beaks slacken;

the Jackdaw, opportunist feeder,

opportunist mate,

finds Spain more appealing

to spread its possible its Gastrointestinal


rather than spend time in London

pecking bottle tops and the virus

in their beaks…


in the corner

they huddle, the jackdaws

on the train move on to New Street,

I take flight at Galton Bridge,

unable to stand the speculation

of sex throughout the night,

the cawing and clawing

of ruffled feathers.


Ian D. Hall 2017