Nothing to do but watch the egg-white sky,
the brown leaves scattered on the grass, and wonder
should I replace the tired heathers in the basket
hung outside the door
when a wren flies into it. Another wren! Then more,
settling themselves among the snaggled stems
as if a wind had lifted all the leaves
and blown them there.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Gill McEvoy
would be pleased to hear them.