Winter Goose

Somethings got it’s eye on you
for sure, if you were beady eyed
enough you’d see but you’re a bit stupid
with the novelty of being a wild birdy
probably an escapee from domesticity.
Opulently white, white as a spa robe
with compliments of orange
-beak and matching webbed feet-
not a swan, no swan would swan
here in neglected, mean canal territory,
but delightful in morning drudgery,
stuck between a lock and a hard place
naively opening up to ducks
too streetwise, paired off already in gangs.
Mainly, I see you alone-even in
head torch for a moon darkness,
a floating feathered craft, creature
sacred, vulnerable,
a manoeuvring meringue
surely moribund, at the mercy of foxes
and pine martens, dogs, people
but free for now and
gentle and pure and plump
a gift, with daylight still contracting, a gift adrift in this hostile haven of a place, a gift
for me to set my eye on you.