Spring 2015
A sparrowhawk settles, perches on the arch of trellis,
back towards me, striated tail almost the grain of wood.
2.
Do blackbirds worry? They must know fear, be wary
of sword-like shadows in the sky, alert to pad of cat, thud of stone.
They raise shrill alarms when their young are threatened.
But do they roost and fret that something unseen, unknown, hangs over them?
With these, I would be.
And with the trees. Look at them!
Bent by the wind, flailing – yet they do not start awake
in dread of what might be in store. Unease does not dog them.
Twigs break, branches snap – but trunks thicken, moss velvets their bark.
Leaves fall but buds burst, roots extend, mesh, fix themselves into earth.
3.
I stand at my window and think
of seed setting in cracks of dirt.
Green worm curling out, questing
from brown casing, wriggling,
burrowing upwards, shoving through.
Soft and pliable at first, it soon turns whippy,
toughens up, roughens up, strikes out,
stands up for itself.
4.
Now the sun has risen over the chimneys
of the houses beyond my garden, the sky
pink with hope of a clear day.
I drink the last of the coffee in my cup.
The birds have faded into their own lives.
The wind’s worn out.
Nothing stirs.
The Linnet's Wings Poetry