A sudden rush of wings heralds
a thrush in triumph with a snail
shining wetly in its beak.
A second flurry and a second
bird appears, brownish-black,
aggressive movements: I want that!
The thrush heads off, hiding deep
among the million roses’ thorns.
A black eye looks at me and then
The blackbirds’ wife with one bold move
is standing just inside the room
which smells of ironing and clean shirts –
a blink of reckless possibility –
to wreak havoc in the warm clean space
with feathers, droppings, frenzied wings …
But no. She turns, and hops away
a bird again, in her own place.
The snail? Dead meat. The sun still shines.