Poetry

Seedlings

And why the tapping of bamboo

against stone,

to scare away the birds

as the water starts to fill?

Spilling over the sides into the sand beyond,

clotting it into mounds that crumble

as soon as they dry.

The seeds will still grow even

if they’re scattered by ruffled feathers

making a mess of the business of eating

in a public place. They may

become willowy and wild,

the berserker runs thoroughly through

their system. Their comfort. Their home.

 

Poetry

A rainy afternoon

It begins as a light tapping

on glass,

a rhythmic patter

of ghostly fingers

that leave only tear streaks down the pane.

Wellies left outside the door

in a rush

soon begin to fill

and seeds cast on bird tables glisten

like small nuggets of gold.

The smell of the earth rises,

bringing forth a crowd of slugs and snails

who rummage through fallen leaves.

A tiny river courses along the path,

wetting moss and stone,

finally pooling in the dip that always stays

just a little bit damp.