Under the arches the coal tits dart
Around the quarry they flurry
Down over that little bit of swamp
Where the railway men's waste was dumped
Over the piles of rubble, brick work and industrial trash
The leached-into, the sodden ground, near the river, brown bushes grow
That make homes for the Coal Tits, they flit and dart between them
And hang on to the brick work
With their little claws
In the embers of December, they are the spark
In the grey rainy Novembers, they come again like filaments
of colours in the filigrees of green and brown, agricultural hedgerows
In the borders of the town, where the dogs and dog walkers
go around
Not forgotten about
But just hanging around
Like a resident nobody knows
Except you'd miss their sound
Because they're like a loved one
In the fabric of the town
A backdrop scenic prop
Except they chose to stop
There who knows, what senses
Just an ideal bit of real estate
To live beneath the arches of the viaduct
Close to where the Sheppey flows
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