Concrete and brick, Buddleia and Willow-herb,
Herring gulls shouting, pigeons pompously strutting.
Passers-by enquiring and endlessly pontificating,
Bats utterly absent, hiding from flood-lights.
Waiting and wondering, life-force slowly waning,
One brief soprano, commuting somewhere better.
Back to silence, except for kids screaming,
And traffic and aircraft and trains rattling by.
Swirling dust devils and eau de exhaust,
No basis for life, be it human or bat.
A single Common emerges, but not where I am,
Eight surveyors for one lonely bat.
What is the point of this long, tedious vigil?
Hankering for castles, barns and forest lodges.
‘Negative results matter’ someone inevitably says,
There’s nothing for it - resort to radio word games.
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