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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 blatantHer catcalls dwarfed her body;
Blithely, though, and self-important
She flung them round.
They
hopped upon
A
tub of daffodils,Quite unafraid, and fixing
Me with disputatious bills
Complaint begun.
Life
had no sense;
Sodden,
they lived to breedAnd feed, then in the shoddy
Open air they died; what need
Intelligence?
They
had their say
That
day, hungry and hoar;All’s said, the wise man covets
Food; in which shift who knew more –
I or they?
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©
July 2013