This afternoon, out troop the basking flies,
various sizes, sasses and fusses -
hardly fair to say, since they're so subdued.
Now, yesterday procured me sunburned nose
in mid March!
It's no surprise these fuzz-wings
bask now on backs of high albedo chairs,
warm mischief-apparatus, to run their
'algorithms', defining us alive,
since 'software' is the deep-encoded 'soul'
encrypted* when our 'Bugger Bognor!'s* spoke.
Arms-length, two sparrows 'hidden' in the hedge
negotiate its tangles hop by hop,
so stealth-mode, though we know the nest is there.
The theme is still the dying and new born -
the winter's gouges filled with waiting seed
that field-edges will 'annual' again.
..................
*'En-crypt-ed' in this sense, 'laid to rest in a crypt'.
*'Bugger Bognor!' Gloriously, (though most probably mythically) the last, deathbed words of King George V, after his wife says they will go to the seaside there, Bognor Regis, to recover his health.
