The Blue Tit

Does it know that it is being 

observed, caught by the camera's 

partial eye? What matter, or

whether it has a name for itself,

for us also. 

There will be one that it uses 

to differentiate itself, surely, 

more nuanced in its expression 

than the awkward, stumbling 

consonants, vowels we would employ.

It knows the limits of the lens,

the freedom found in the song,

the cool, crisp air of morning, 

and the limits of the love that 

we thought that we shared, too.

The Lichgate Is Open

The lichgate is open, 

its promise unwavering, like 

that of the leaves that fall,

keeping faith while we do not.

It is the perspective that 

makes all things small –

the distance between one season 

and another, sunrise and dusk, 

all things having their time.

Are we transformed in the 

act of falling, or do you

perceive only loss? Is there 

beauty to be 

found in the passing?

On the still berried hedge 

the year's last butterfly

rests, regardless, knowing

that spring will come.

The Robin

There it is. The Robin

chirruping importantly from 

its treetop perch, impervious 

to the camera's lens, scant

regard paid to the passing 

courtship of blue-tits in the 

hedgerow. Our worlds brush

lightly, but do not touch.

It is restless, too, 

marking the beating of the 

hours, the minutes, time we 

measure out in loss.

This view of distant hills.