Pompous as politicians
they drift across the road
stopping traffic, haunt
suburban shrubbery,
their bronzed black plumage
ominous, shiny with self-regard.
Above those bulbous bodies
their silly little heads
swivel like radar, scouting.
So conscience some days
in its dark-feathered habit
arrives on stealthy feet
to inspect my secret garden,
eager to snap up whatever
grubby evidence
you may have dropped.