Birds of a Feather

This August, the pigeons are on the fence
until sunset, never at home

in next doors’ lichen-scabbed
apple tree where they built their nest.

She keeps plumping down in one spot
as he sidles to and fro, 

throwing her a nudge, a peck. Eventually
he hops on top of her, upsetting 

her balance till he pins her down,
and she settles under his weight, unflappable

as a goddess. Afterwards, she shrugs
and swoops off for a few minutes peace –

but always flitters back. Always the same
old thing, billing and cooing.

A Witness

You can’t let go of what you never held,
that robin right now singing from this tree.
The tree will fall, the robin fly away
with all the things you notice every day.

The world, the way you make it, will not last,
not only things, but people, those you love.
How odd to think they’re your creation,
impermanent as any other notion,

all the hopes and fears you’ve entertained,
the urgent entries in your diaries
that, when you wrote them, felt immortal,
yet, re-read later, hardly seem vital.

But that’s your judgment, which will also go
nowhere in the end. No use to object,
There is no remedy. Unless, too, this
is no more than your best guess.

Where the robin perched, a vacant air.
No song now but moaning of the wind.
You see in the window, like a fading moon,
you wraithlike face. Close your eyes, and it’s gone.


Morning

You know about it, I know about it,
but we don't talk about it
because we can't talk about it,

we don't know how, we don't know how
to talk about it without choking 
all hope, all good feeling, losing everything

we still have, everything not ruined
for us, by us, that makes life
often ok, allows us to be

at home, you taking fresh washed clothes
from the washing machine, arranging them
on the rack to dry, me squeezing past you

to fetch logs and split them for the stove,
you putting the kettle on
while I cut slices of a new loaf, 

us sitting facing each other, chewing
breakfast, you eating the egg
I've tried to poach exactly right,

me with avocado on my toast,
while outside the window we see
birds swooping on the feed you put out,

the wren, the robin, the quick sparrows
and the ponderous wood pigeons,
a gang of starlings breaking in to scoff 

madly everything on the bird table,
doing whatever they must to stay 
alive for as long as they can. Not long, 

not long, is it? But till then, I'm seeing you,  
you're seeing me. And with the birds, 
we carry on as best we can.