You, blue tit, in your blue hat, were that guy who worked on the log flume at Camelot Theme Park. When I took cash on the gates I was envious of how you worked yourself up from the Go-Karts, Sir Lancelot’s Chargers, Pendragon’s Plunge. Neither of us were knights but both of us dreamed of drowning under water and I was sad to hear of how you went down and didn’t surface again with splashes in your face to the flash of cameras.

You, sparrow, were that woman with the orange lipstick and fluffy cream and brown coat selling yourself near New Hall Lane at 4am as I walked past in my fishnets and army boots avoiding the cars that might ask if I was on the job. I saw you get in and kind of guessed you might not get out again. I walked on, and on, and on, guiltily glad I had not your desperation.

You, blackbird, were the wannabe magician who worked in the gaming store.  You found out about how John Dee and Edward Kelley attempted to raise the dead at St Leonard’s Church in Walton-le-Dale but had no interest in necromancy nor summoning angels. It seems demons were your thing, smoky mirrors, circles of salt, vanishing. I met you in the Zoo Cafe smelling of sulphur and looking vaguely lost on that night you vanished forever.

You, nuthatch, were the bricklayer who boxed at Penwortham Boxing Club. I’d never have picked a fight with you even on that equinox at the mixed martial arts day when I was told I had a mean right hook. You, big guy, now in your eyeliner with your big torso and determined legs, could not accept yourself. Was that why the cancer crept in that took all your strength?

You, magpie, I cannnot determine who you are. A black-and-white trickster. I accept your mask as I accept the masks of all who ride on the floats in the procession at Penwortham Gala and I accept the harshness of your mocking call.

*All personages in this prose poem are fictitious but have a loose basis in my memories.