Jungle Feeding | Doryn Herbst

Urban Jungle

Through a crumbling archway, down
broken steps, I find my secret garden,
reclaimed by nature and transformed into 
an urban jungle.

I don’t risk the path which leads to the house,
empty windows, a collapsed swing, green
with ivy, a doll’s head, empty eye sockets,
poking out of the rubble.

I sit instead, safe, I think, on the fifth step
from the bottom to look at my rambling green
beauty, disrupted by patches of lilac and red.
Near the wall, scattered brambles, berries
for the birds.

I see decaying logs, luxury living space for woodlice
and beetles which burrow deep to escape the restless
wren foraging with its long, fine bill. Hear its
high-pitched warble vibrate with power.
Tiny bird, big voice.

Is that a hiss that trails along braided, green
vines that creep along the ground, tangle
and interlace around stems which strain towards 
the sun? Each wants to be the victor. Shelter,
food, moisture. Beasts, big, small and minute,
twist and twine, push and shove,
try to survive.

One day, the machines came, busy, loud and thrashing
to make room for (luxury) living space for some, who
board cars and trains to a different urban jungle
and need a place to rest their heads, as much as I,
as much as the creatures and plants
upon which I love to gaze.

And now, I miss my secret garden.

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Feeding Time

Bethany stands in the town square.
She knows she should not,
she is lonely,
but she feeds the pigeons crumbs
of stale bread.

A mass of soft grey, hints of mauve drop down,
a crescendo of cooing, panic flapping of wings.
Each bird wants to get a bigger share of the pie 
into their beak.

There are too many of them, you say.
They eat everything, damage walls
with their droppings. 
Produce young in the thousands.

But then, there are too many of us.
We eat everything, damage everything,
rivers, soils, forests.
Produce young in the millions.

Bethany, knows all this and yet,
she is lonely,
she would like grandchildren.

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©2022 Doryn Herbst
All rights reserved

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