Some swim, lopsided
some stand,ungainly
some hobble to the water’s edge
then hobble back again.
Some flap one wing and some one stump
some flap two stumps,
some stand on one leg
and stare one-eyed.
Count the variable equations
of mutilation.
Some were found broken at the
feet of weirs.
Some were found propellor-hacked,
red lightning across their wings and breasts.
Some were discovered
at the edges of canals
or city ponds,
among the plastic,among the tin,
wrapped in nylon or oily rope.
Some were found
shot through with bolts or bullets,
others
wobbling under mercury,
metal swallowed in weight form
or waters form,leeched
Into the rivers
by the factories nearby.
Count the equations,
always variable,of
mutilation.
Now they cough and limp and stagger
And fall,trying
to reach the water
or the sky; their
healed stumps take them
only into the mud.
Approach them,they will
hiss
telling you
What you already know,or
suspect-what hope
could there be such falling grace.
What stupid providence
would let them
create themselves so,their great wings
to be stolen, their
whiteness to be sullied,their
eyes to be seared atop
their question-mark
virgin necks.
.
Niall Griffiths
.