[22nd May, 2017]

It is occupying the time of early evening
in a warm May back garden
as if a lone child at its own party,
making a racket singing and springing from the
Himalayan birch to the other tree –
the cheap one –
a wren I rarely see in the day but now making
branches jerk surprisingly for such a tiny thing
by pushing off in its manic lively flights.

Above and beyond in the screen of conifers
pigeons are fighting,
the flap of wings
like a monster’s applause,
then a single white feather drifts out and
down from the wall of green and
rests on the roof of the shed beneath
in its horrific fall.