On the hot harbour wall a thousand crows
sweat and croon shoulder to shoulder under
a wilting sun like sailors home from the sea,
staggering on heavy land legs to the Anchor.
The crows know it’s safer here than the woods;
far far from the sport of McGonnigle’s gun.
And here the cunt comes now angry as fuck
like one hawthorn stick’s a match for a murder.
They lure him away down to the turning tide,
swinging his stick in the quicksand banks,
flapping off when the sea pours over his boots.
Inside the frill of seaweed crisping in the sun
clicking sand-flies calculate, one by one,
the days he’ll burn in hell for the man that he’s become.