Wingtalk

you gave it wings

The wren, the sparrow, the robin,
this is the language we speak
in the rain-scrunched briars of Albion
where twigs are currency in the dark
and fox-dung warns the wildfowl
of midnight’s predatory nature.

It’s a dialect of tiny heartbeats always
in the thicket, the attic, the roof, the rafter,
the fizzing of air and what we don’t see
catching us off balance, a feathered plunge
from the corner of our eye,
then a blackbird, then a bluetit, then a jackdaw,
					then a dove…