Five mottled sparrow eggs cushioned inside a breezeblock

with strips of my garden raffia, twig slivers, moss

and odd wing feather sentinels. It is shoulder height.

We tiptoe along the chemin to our plots, smiling, curious.

 

Today, nesting lies rag-strewn over rough ground,

the breezeblock hollow, empty, black. A baleful pall

hangs in the air, its solicitude unbidden. Then –

 

I hear cries and flapping wings, a duck fires a volley,

sculling low, seeking to evade three drakes in pursuit..

She rests a moment, the drakes encircle. Her protestations,

her body, are smothered in the long field grass. I wait

until her shaking head comes into view, then turn,

passing marguerites, buttercups and the empty nest.