Leavings

© By Janet Shepperson

They gather in the street, their faces blanched
by TV lights, their hair streaked by the rain.

I turn over the driftwood on the beach
and find that one of the black shapes is a bird.

After the silent vigil they leave flowers
outside the bookie’s, heaped on the pavement and steps.

The bird struggles and tries to launch itself
into the boiling surf, and falls back.

The steel shutter stays closed. There are children’s poems
cellotaped to it, with the names of the dead.

The tide goes out. The bird is left gasping,
wings trailing at odd angles, drowning on sand.

The wind dislodges the carefully placed bouquets.
rain seeps into the centre of each flower.

Perhaps the wings are broken. They twitch and go still.
the eyes’ angry brightness begins to fade.

Carnations. Roses. Chrysanthemums. Steady rain
crushes the petals, turning their gloss to pulp.

Crows will pick out the eyes. The next high tide
will nudge the heap of feathers and set it afloat

When the bin men come, drowned petals and frayed stems
will go with the ash to be landfill in Belfast Lough.