Midsummer. The month pours itself through the eye
of the year and we follow in our wake of days.
In the courtyard the weight of blossom has brought
the purple hebe to its knees. The weight of rain.
A family of tits chatters on the ox-eye daisies
and the resident magpies have stripped every cherry
ripe or not from my new ‘Sweetheart’ tree. They –
the magpies – swoop like stormtroopers at the woodpecker
on the feeder, steal all my soft fruit, loiter on the gutter
by the great tits’ nest to pick off the hatchlings.
I stoop to lift this one my heart contracting at its useless legs
its spread-eagled flapping at the side of the lane –
lift it into green – what else can I do? We’re all in this together.
Each of the ten thousand things does what’s in its nature
to do. We’re all in this together – tree rain midge magpie snail.
The earth turns on its axis another year and another year.