The Birds

The crows in Japan have
become so burly
they can take an old lady
out of circulation

They'll strip her of her
shiny teeth, steal her
buttons and zippers
then leave her
dull and pummelled
on the side of the road.

The magpies in New Zealand
swoop down from trees,
claw comb your hair,
quardle oodle
in your ear and
cloister behind pine needle
curtains, plotting how to
pluck out your eyes.

My grandmother,
a fine gardener, a farmer's wife
a gentle woman who only once
broke a hair brush on
my mother's bottom

Grabbed a gun from
beneath the Stag head in the hall
and, eyes squeezed tight,
shot it straight up to
where the magpies wove

Her surprised children gathered
round the offerings
and she told them of
Snow White's blood lips,
alabaster skin, crow black hair
as she buried
the dead birds
beneath the
red rose bush.