[This came quickly to me today - a tweet about birds suddenly chimed with images already in my head and gave form to some feelings. The poem is not about birds...]
It visits me in my garden,
This thing with feathers,
In the quiet of the morning
Or the still afternoon –
Mostly heard, not seen.
It can be bluetit quick and
Kingfisher bright;
Jackdaw black and full of night;
Mundane as a sparrow or
Dunnock dull.
It feeds on the seeds and the crumbs I leave,
Fleetingly light as a
flock of finches, green and gold,
Or clumsy as the collared doves
Spilling sunflower hearts on the lawn
Like tears.
It is the familiar robin
Stealing mealworms from my hand
And the high wheeling kite.
It is the thrush cracking snails
On the garden path.
It is the unseen threat of the
Sparrowhawk in the high hedge -
Mostly felt, not seen.
It visits me in my garden,
This thing with feathers,
As the last of the light disappears,
And I ask it -
Are you Grief or Hope?
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