Frequent flyer at the feeder: May 2015
This morning, when I stepped out into the garden, a friend was waiting on the garden wall.
I think of him as a friend.
Feeding the birds is part of what I do. And the male blackbird knows this so well, that when he saw me, he opened his beak. A clearer bit of bird to human communication is hard to imagine. As if to underline his point, he then flew onto the empty tray, left to let me fill it, then returned, to eat.
His visit reminded me of a poem I wrote earlier this month. After a long hiatus, I’m writing poetry again.
A lot of it is about birds.
A Gold-Rimmed Eye
This morning,
I poured out
chunks of suet,
the dried bodies
of mealworms,
a cheap
mix of seeds
onto a tray,
and from
a near-empty heart.
And he, Youngest
of the Celtic Eldest,
landed, ate,
and looked at me:
from an eye
rimmed with gold,
as black
as his name.
Hold onto this:
memorise this moment
with your own,
tired old hazels.
Shelter: May 2015
