Through the avenue of trees
Into the woods,
Beside the soft-voiced stream.
The bird song; Black Cap, Song Thrush,
Sometimes a trace of the exotic -
Tree Creeper or Jay.

I’d heard the talk,
Of treasure found
On Blackamoor.
I tread the path
Attentive for your call.

At last
A flash of black and white –
A robin in a dinner jacket.
Flick of tail and disappeared.
Elusive.

Next day there is a sureness in my stride;
Across the stepping-stones,
Up the harsh hill
That makes my lungs expand.

Fern and bracken
Greenwash the steep bank
To glinting beck.
The trees are sparse,
With verdant limbs
That touch the sky.
I sniff a lilt of dampness in the air,
An autumn tang in spring.

A shadow in the tree
And there you are:
Darting to the broken stump,
A darkened hole for eye –
Your home.

Ficedula Hypoleuca;
Sounds like the spell you’ve cast on me.

Breacan-glas,
Trauerschnapper,
Papa-moscas,
Flekkugripur.
You seem a tiny, timid, bird
To have such grandiose names.

Out of sight
A scrambled heap of tiny chicks
Lift their pointed beaks to light
And chorus their demands.

I hear you are a fickle male
Fathering two broods at once,
And pray these will survive.
Your brown backed
Insect laden mate
Will feed these mouths, regardless.

Day by day I come;
Trees, woods, stones, hill –
Sunshine, misty mornings.
Fearing the barren emptiness
Your exodus will bring.

Imagine that –
My little birds
Fly through the night to Spain.
A clock and compass miracle.
A party to refuel with friends,
West Africa awaits.

Blue skies, blue sea,
Brazen heat, burnt sand.
You carry
In your feathered soul
The changing climate knell.
My patch of nature
Twinned with distant ecotypes
By this tight ball of fluff.

As I walk up this path
In autumn lights
And winter chill,
I’ll mourn your passing,
Longing for the spring.