All the little plagues

Last night we saw a pipistrelle

it shot across the clean white sky like spilt ink –

no aeroplanes to quill the corona dusk in familiar font

just a Cessna coughing its way to Coventry Airport still open for enthusiasts.


I looked at you and said “They eat birdsong and bats in China because they can”

I told about the bunting of the Ortolan and you never believed me

how the romans poked out their eyes so it would eat more seed

how they drowned it alive in Brandy then torched it singing.


Last night I walked on the bones of Brinklow Castle and consumed the starlight

I was not alone, there was a buzzard making a corona then swooped.

In the distance was a stillness of more buzzards and the sky,

so still, it made me stop and all the little plagues were gone.

man walking on the empty street

Photo by Alex Fu on


2 Responses to “All the little plagues”

  1. Claire Booker Says:

    A lovely poem, Antony.

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