Amateur

It’s hard to tell once on
The train to Birmingham
Whether it changed anything
Seeing a multiracial society
Kids running across bustling streets
The sights and smells differ
From quiet, sterilised streets
Amateur gardeners knead out
The weeds around a small plot
Of land. I’m bored just watching
The intricate backbreaking toil
I could remove the signs from
School gates, take what disruption
I can get my hands upon
Lice crawling on bare skin
Escape, not yet an option

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Amateur

Migration

Dying thrushes on leafless branches
Huddled, but unable to escape
The cold winter breeze
The wind whistling a song
Of leaving early and
Spending night tucked
Under a foreign skyline
Because this one is too harsh
To accommodate the soft
Fodder that gathers
Under the hedgerows

Migration