I Am Not Starving

It is a silent winter,

there are no birds

to shoot, had I even a gun.

They have flown south.

Yet I am not starving,

since spring and summer

brought their bounty,

of fruits and berries

growing by silent tarmac.

So I am not starving.

I am eating meat,

I cannot grow greens:

this salt-cured horse

is hard on the teeth.

But I am not starving.

Before he died

I called him Famine:

if only there

had been four.

Though I am not starving,

I wait for the crack

to let the light in,

whilst I chew

and wish for conversation.

Still, I am not starving.