I’m currently writing a collection of poems on birds, entitled A Gospel of Birds.

Here’s my latest:


When I was nine I bridged the barbed wire fence
With our blue and red metal slide
A trespasser into the orchard
There I opened, one after the other
the farmer’s cages freeing
trapped bull finches
amidst the apple trees and blackcurrants.

The hot scent of currant blossom, the delicate
White pink of apple bud and that deep raspberry
pugnacious breast  thrilled me –
I flew free, ravished by the plenty.

Today I sit on beech branch swing, still
And quiet as it rains large splats
Watching a pair, now rare (amber status).
They whistle and pipe their mournful cry
At home among the saplings.

They have the space, bullish with
Oblivious grace.

(c) F.E.F. Ward, Good Friday 2018