Robert Ford

Finding a dead Waxwing on Braid Road

The rising street is used to its cars only ever creating
drab corpses out of pigeons, or the unsentimental crows
that process them; yet it’s strangely easy to overlook
the paint-fresh colours, the deliberate feathering,
of other birds less common to the neighbourhood.
The eyes had fallen, softly, permanently closed, and
the breathless bill offered not even a vaguest hush
of explanation. There it lay, inert, less than a stumble
of unremarkable strides away from the doorway of an
emptied shop once selling something presumably
no longer required at the price. The gutter shielded
its naked incongruity, like tin-can collateral dropped
from a recycling collection that left no tell-tale clatter
of alert on the pavement, or – more likely – a tiny,
exquisite doll allowed to tumble from a passing pram
by hands not yet ready to be careful enough to hold on.

Copyright © Robert Ford 2017

Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US. More of his work can be found at


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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2 Responses to Robert Ford

  1. E A M Harris says:

    I love this poem even though it’s so sad. The implication at the end that humans are not yet mature enough to take care of their fellow creatures, reminds us of our responsibilities to those creatures.

  2. Pingback: New poems at The Open Mouse and The Poetry Shed | Wezzlehead

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