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Runcible Spoon

heart logo Privacy Notice Mark Totterdell



I’m at the city centre crossroads.

I’ve missed the swoop. I’m here mid-action;

the feather-flurry, the dark fury

already gripping soft mother-of-pearl.


A bolt from the grey, bang on the x-spot.

It screams for meanings. A mind-stirrer.

A myth-seed. A poem-trigger.


The pigeon, dazed, somehow doesn’t quite

stumble under a bus, lives on.

The peregrine, empty-taloned, jets

up the street, shatters the flock to fragments.


This wouldn’t matter if it hadn’t happened

just so, just then, in the gap between

a death and my knowing of it.