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Publisert 31.05.16. I. Liland

Puffin wreck

- granted, this winter was the worst

since '47, razorbills, guillemots

and the poor little little bright-billed

brothers, rudely ripped from their burrows

in the breeding season, not by

dogs, these days, flushing 'em out,

four hundred wingbeats

a minute, for starving islanders

not catholics craving

half-fowl, half-fish, for Fridays,

Icelanders lusting for raw

hearts or even Ramsay

sky-fishing for the camera

Where is it, darling, There´s

hardly any on my fuckin plate,

they´re a fuckin ´nightmare to catch -

Grease my palm with

Brent Crude, and I´ll tell:

a certain someone turned up the heat

on the bath water, caused a flood and whoops!

the contents of the fridge upped and offed.

Bring back the sand eel, I say, but I fear

there´ll be none left for you

my chick: today we have

snake pipefish, decomposing

for the webcam while you gag -

maybe we´ll see you later on the beaches

of Lundy, Røst or St Kilda -washed up, rotten.