Superpower
You’d imagine they’d make more of it, that feathered
superpower of theirs, leaping across this planet ripe with air.
Take the wren: there she hops, perpetually earthed
in topsoil and grubs, happiest hidden behind a rock.
The sex-crazed dunnock, wild with spring warmth, scarcely
ventures metres above ground, plays peekaboo in hedges.
Even the kingfisher, bulleting over the mill pond
or blueing up-river, zips below radar, eyes constantly down.
The song-thrush will rise to a treetop, pick a balcony branch,
needs only enough height to waterfall his tunes.
Magpies stack their scaffolding on upper levels,
jostle their high-rise building sites in white hi-vis.
Bold as garbage, feral pigeons inhabit a wider map,
yet return to crap on walkers under bridges.
Perhaps we gave wings to our angels, demons,
knowing they’d roost at night, talons resting in our necks.
Julian Dobson lives in Sheffield. His poems have been published in various journals, most recently in Shearsman, Orbis, and Pennine Platform, and on a bus in Guernsey.