Starlings etc. chirrup, cheep and squawk,
warble, sing and rasp in Battersea Park
as the tyre-treads hiss and the passers-by talk
beneath a drear London sky, still and stark.

This is a painter's scene, not a poet's.
What beauty comes of mentioning this railing
or this sculpture here, so barren, though it's
born of art? High words here are not availing.

A woman now, with her lead-less doggy,
is greeted by another one with hers,
and a gander, irked at being soggy,
shakes dry his plumage while his self-love stirs.

Bedoggied women, tramps and me and you,
whiling the expendable hours amain,
are here for being here or passing through
or for something lost which we want again.