Mixed Borders

She is the nest’s thought weaving
between mud, grass and tree,
and when she lands on a high twig
she lands in the ghost of a house,
where a mother once sat hunched
on a landing, fretting for her children
far away in their country lodgings.
II
The new pond floats between
hangings of lime, broom and bird cherry,
sinks down among the kingcups
and their green seeds, and mingles
with the creeping purple bugle.
Over the murmurings of machinery,
the blackbird sings. And this could be peace,
until out of nowhere, a pair
of fat mallards hurl themselves down,
then smash into the water,
with flaps and creaks
and a fuss of fanning wings.
There are wider waterways close by,
but this small gleam summons them.
They dip their beaks to dredge up mud.
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