High Town Crow
with eyes as cold as memorial stone,
never missing any sadness, regret,
capturing my every ex-lover’s name
under your cape of wing.
You perch on boarding house roofs
or swagger along my mantelpiece, waiting,
knowing
I’ll stuff up, fuck up
and if beaks could smirk
yours would
as I kiss Nicolas and we’re drenched in porchlight
that becomes beautiful –
he’s unzipping his skin, offering me his heart
and High Town Crow twitches,
tenses, my dark sky undertaker
checks reflection in the wet of my lips,
prepares to feed on remains.
High Town Crow, my mistakes
are the psalms you offer to the squall,
squawking into hungry wind
as we feast on croissant, smile into a wretched Lambrini
but this time I swear it will be different,
we’ll walk the blazing avenues
and you’ll have lost interest, be gone
High Town Crow, gone
to spy and gloat on others
who fall away
under your chilly longitudes and latitudes.
Simon French lives in Derby. He has a First Class Honours Degree in Creative Writing and has had poetry published in various magazines including The London Magazine, Ambit, Stand and The Rialto.