by Denise Woodhouse

 

I like to think I’m not superstitious, yet I always slyly nod or

take a sharp, sideways look for your mate,

hoping she is not keeping some date with sorrow,

 

some meeting with ill fate.

 

The two of you, foraging through your lifelong match, carry

me away, in this mirthless stony-skied season, with your

swooping, high-definition black and white. A joy

 

for my imprisoned pen to try and draw or write.

 

Your purposeful walk, the radiant green-purple unfurl

of your slick wing, clears my cloth head, while above

my bed other birds gossip on the guttering, their full

 

bright eyes counting acorns for the young.

 

Five o’clock. The sun pinpoints the ripples of the river.

Through the net of trees dusk marks your shining breast.

From my room I have watched the pied six-fold clans gather

 

above the wide oxbow of silver,

 

while you, all day, keep vigil at your nest.

For richer, for poorer, whether warm or cold. My secret

regret now – I’ll never see the pale glow of seven green eggs

 

that fleck the proud, dark bead of your eye with gold.

 

 

Copyright Denise Woodhouse 2020

“It’s never too late to start writing”

 

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