by Oonah V. Joslin
I suppose we won’t be going out.
The blackbird, sitting on the fence,
opens and closes his beak,
drinking the day.
There’s a general criss-crossing
hedge to hedge to tree to fence to feeder,
and a neighbour’s cat,
regardless of the weather,
has her head between the garden ghosts,
intent on mice under the winter jasmine.
A weet-weet-weet a pretty bird
through beads of ordinary rain they sing.
Copyright © 2015 by
Oonah V. Joslin