The Sparrow Tree – a poem.
The laurel in the garden,
badly clipped into a shabby ball,
green, tight-leafed and sheltering,
speaks to me now
in querulous voices.
It has become a haven for birds,
their perches the unseen, leafless
twiglets and branches within.
Hidden from cats and hawks and cold,
and the casual cruelty of men,
from killers of all kinds,
they chatter like giddy old biddies
twittering about something and nothing
The sound tickles my ears,
reminds me of my grandmother, somehow,
makes me smile.
I’m glad the sparrow tree speaks