Upstairs to the screaming vats
where billions of pre-animates
inch towards dear life and apex beasts
maul each other for a gasp
on top the pile, in minute arc
Packs of dogs pad corridors,
gnaw telly cable off the walls
which run beside the gym hall floor
and spool up the years
of secret, bin-ransacking shame
Cut to studio once things die down
and everyone’s a home for birds;
with head cocked for the count
a sparrow hops off from the couch
and into the earth, green as gold.
Richard Watt writes for a morning newspaper with its roots in Dundee and divides his time between being a proud father, sitting in courtrooms and being shouted at by farmers. His first poetry pamphlet The Golem was published in 2013 and he is working on a book of short stories.