Grey and white feathered bird
You lie there dead
for all to see
in the sunlit morning

Most people pass you by
for you are a dead bird
grey and white
your feathers in the sun

The Negroes pass
The West Indians
The poor Irish going to Portobello Market

The green stocking girl
who sells her wares on the corner
bananas and dates and oranges
they are selling in the market

I bend down
on my knees
in the sunlit morning
and kiss your wing
grey and white
gleaming in the sun

No more
shall you aspire
air and cloud and sky

No more
The noises of the rabble
to wet your thirst

No more
on this earth
poor bird
shall the light
blind you to darkness

No more
No more