Birds call
cascades from distant brough
to those foraging grasses high and
between bramble flowers
where insects' hide,
knowing well the thorns to avoid
long before berries bulge and ripe.
Gather they fresh thistledown
for nest's reline
then silence fledglings' shrill
with
bugs and grubs
and stale breadcrumbs
Treasures from a garden of mine.

To see you cast down those eyes

pennies sinking in a well

searching for hope's desired wish
or forlorn in regret

as they fell.

Tumbled down rubble
pushed then mounted
into the truck's buckets,
driven through sodden mud
and away from centuries of familiar standing,
do memories join your journey,
shadows of past existence and echoes of sweat,
of worry?
The bones of a building
shell shallow and crusted
without soul.

Like snowflakes
the lace
mesh of net
curtain drapes
the window
that admitted your entrance.
You and the wind
to fan flames of a smokey fire,
giving tongues to the chimney troath.
There you now sit
between
gossamer and pane
wondering how it's shut
against elements raw
puzzling the porthole with paw
through which you wish to explore
to chase whisked leaves
and shadows fleet.
The window opens no more.