Nature In Middlesborough

Chemical wasteland:
Slim, blue–painted chimneys
With bad breath
And flickering little tongues
Of yellow fire,
Blind cliffs of concrete,
A bridge like giant Meccano,
Empty reels of road.

Yet, not unhopeful of a meal
A kestrel quivers
On a column of warm air.
A lark
Doing his Indian rope trick
Over a baby remnant
Of dune grasses,
Knows he has reason to rejoice,
Down in the river–mouth,
For sturdy greylag geese
And dabbling redshank,
Water is water
Whatever it reflects.
And noticeboards that state
‘Seal Sands Nature Reserve’
Are handy perches
For a preening gull.