One cold March day
Two sparrows – he and she –
Hop-crept from a privet’s
Dusty roots and stared at me.
I stayed my way.
Their bright frank eyes,His bib and dark-grey crown,
Emboldened the flat morning;
She, though plumaged all in brown,
Chirped like shook keys.
And what a sound!Shouting-loud and blatant
Her catcalls dwarfed her body;
Blithely, though, and self-important
She flung them round.
They hopped uponA tub of daffodils,
Quite unafraid, and fixing
Me with disputatious bills
Life had no sense;Sodden, they lived to breed
And feed, then in the shoddy
Open air they died; what need
They had their sayThat day, hungry and hoar;
All’s said, the wise man covets
Food; in which shift who knew more –
I or they?
====================© July 2013