|Through an early morning yawn I awoke
to the rat a tat tat of tormented finches battling with their reflections,
in the mirrors dotted among the winter naked branches of willow and ash.
My latest jaunt at arting up the garden.
But alas, I was inflicting masochistic tendencies on these territorial little warriors.And just at the base of the winter naked trees, pushing on,
pushing upwards, daffodils, wild garlic, primulas.
A little way down the boreen, grey hooded crows, causing a terrible rumpus.
A building site in the heavens.
Twigs and moss and clay and bailing twine and sheep wool and silage wrap and dried cow dung.
Nesting time in Somer’ s Woods.
Buzzards patrol, and life goes on.
It is quarantine day.
Through an early morning yawn she awoke, to the toll of nothing.
P. Chapman March 2020
|Hello. I am a member of Hollyfort Writers Group. I write for pleasure. Inspired by childhood memories and nature.|