Feather Factory
We kiss by the side of the feather factory,
the stench of singed wings
fills our noses and mouths.
We are nest-bound – tongues entwined,
pockets full of Swan Vestas and Players Number Six,
your nylon trousers spark to the rub.
Later the birds will haunt us:
their feathers will float around our heads,
pillow our eyes against the brightness of the day.
* Julia Webb has a degree in Creative Writing from Norwich University College of the Arts and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at The University of East Anglia.
