Written last August.
The starlings are gathered in Brighton.
The pier crumbles forlornly into the
sea, spangled with dead
neon from the boardwalk.
Tourists meander with hot chips,
‘Is that France?’
The sky is rabid tangerine.
They nestle on cold harbour steel,
waiting for the wind to rise
and lift them into
The first leap.
A brave pioneer vaults from his post
into the apricot dusk.
One by one, they ascend in a cloud of smoke;
thousands of tiny bodies build
until there drifts a
blossoming cacophony of birdsong.
The shore disappears.
Starlings entwine together
in the crimson blush.