I’m currently writing a collection of poems on birds, entitled A Gospel of Birds.
Here’s my latest:
Bullfinch 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