We're held up by wires like
threads of giant spiders webs,
look down on cranes and construction sites
the dandruff dust on Pier Head,
the city struggling back to life,
bald heads of businessmen,
in Matchbox cars, red stop, green go,
the tide coming and going in great gulps.
We love these new buildings Ė they are
mirrors where we preen ourselves.
We are gritty and ancient, wings
spread like rumours across the city.
We make a nest in history,
but two beats of a wing and we could fly
on thermals rising up from heated streets.
Itís hard to perch so long, so still,
but we have a birdís eye view;
anywhere you see us, we see you Ė
across the city the suburbs, the water,
every movement, everything you do.
By Clare Kirwan