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The headlong flats of Tudor Rose Court<br />
vanish into sludge like history,<br />
and all the bird cherry confetti<br />
is drowned. But later the blackbird<br />
flitters back to the rippling edge,<br />
where, head cocked, she sees<br />
how reflection settles and reforms.<br />
III<br />
Crouching by the pond,<br />
next to the insect hotel,<br />
trying to think a green thought<br />
in a green shade,<br />
I know I’m being watched,<br />
not by gnats and solitary bees,<br />
but by other winged presences<br />
who give themselves away<br />
through the rhythmic tick-tock<br />
rattle of loose bark on the path.<br />
When I turn, a row of pigeons<br />
sways along the curve,<br />
fanning their tails.<br />
They eye my sandwich bag,<br />
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