Tit

something was wrong

garden birds flit about incessantly, especially

tiny Blue Tits, they chatter non-stop

but not this one, still as a stone, peering

through the glass as if asking for directions,

what it was thinking as I gently cradled it

to the safety of my palm heaven only knows,

dazed not damaged was my cursory diagnosis

as Maggie and Beatrix beseech me for a rare

chance to hold the tiny weightless feathered ball,

next door’s cat being a prime concern I

gingerly placed the tiny scrap on a raised-bed

wooden sleeper, the girls sprinkled seeds

for unwanted sustenance,

we marvel for five minutes at this close encounter,

a special time, jeopardy still heavy in the air

as we discuss potential palliative nursing,

without warning a sudden flicker,

swift as a conjuring trick and it was gone

to the sanctuary of the walnut tree,

after lunch, idling on the patio

the girls were adamant, pointing, claiming

the patient had returned to say thank you

from within the holly tree

how could I possibly disagree?

Published by grahamrsherwood