I slip slide my way to the garden
ice on the deck between us
sitting by the unseasonable onions
clinging to their underground life
and the house ravens flop
hoping for some kitchen salvage
Every day has its glory
My coffee hanging breath in air
a spinebill on the toe of my boot
its head tucked
in furtive nodding reconciliation
the blue tongue apprentice puffs
a butcher bird sings a cruel elegy
notes from a throatful of memory
where all beauty lies in antithesis
I’m unfathomably teary here
in the privilege of living long
and I think of that rueful silence
of children stopping play to listen
turning to face the noiseless future
before missiles deliver the fiery past
