Wintering

December's First

Thirteen degrees C,
and some few little flies are out
sailing a white fuzz, or, hardly macro,
legs pumping a blur,
crawling the board I rest my paper on.

Blackbird's back for an apple-peck, sly
his narrow yellow bill flicks in soft
apple flesh - oh flick, flick warily,
that beading eye, legs tensed to fly.

It may be, behind my back,
the fault of the black cat invasion. Of late
the sweet lovers, the tumblers in wet grass,
throats white-splashed, lithe in looks,
assured in their dog-baiting visibility
atop the fence, have terrorized my birds.

I'm half minded to buy, and nail up sharpish,
some lengths of chicken wire; but at least
they don't lie like that fat, white tom
on the trampoline all day, holing the bouncy mat
with stuck claws sawing back to free themselves,
ripping wide the netting- access and egress -
since I took down the whole sorry thing.

As to these lovers - ah - even now - I see
a flash of white-throat, a charcoal form
sliding easily between solid fence and trellis.

Blackbirds "Chucka-chucka-tut!" him,
flee from the thorn.

A sparrow sits on hedge-top,
peeps between tuft of leaves,
wistful for the feeder but, oh,
there are so many apples down below.

Won't you chance it; won't you dance it,
twitter-boy, twitter-girl?

Up there, over broken veils of ashen drift
a static backcloth rag-rolled, shining
showing the blue through;

and as I write the sun's eye
opens wide and floods us all with light:
persistent leaves that each receive their candling,
the hidden cats, the peeping birds,
the insects out for half a chance.

I stand to be blinded by the anthem,
see sudden swarms of little flies shine blonde -
and midges by the incinerator, luminous
dancing feys, a little girl might goggle at;
and so do I, so do I.