After the fire at Matalan

Men in uniform lift and lower the tape

for other men in uniform

as the crane rises and circles.

Neighbouring stores close, choked by the acrid plumes,

bank holiday shoppers deprived of DIY and carpets.

And those of us housebound by the flames

walk by late afternoon to view the carcass

of this giant industrial bird, its curved bones

bared like a half-carved turkey,

and inhale charred remains that float,

then settle on the concrete of the retail park,

ochre insulation like discarded nesting.

Close to Christmas,

graffiti-ed hoardings disguise the deconstruction,

apologise for the inconvenience, while skip lorries

rattle the ashes of the pyre through the town.

Viewed through the square link fence,

an open space, a pile of rubble.

And still stray slices of the old bird’s nest

skim the car park, perch on the branches of the winter trees.