Only two weeks ago it was quiet,
apart from the owls at night.
But now the song thrush has started
his merry, desperate tune,
and a murmuration of starlings
daily pervades the sky.

By day, falls of lambs
spring on grassy banks,
their mothers staring back
at the farmer's straining dog.

At a shout from his master,
he hits the floor,
his wagging tail halts,
pricked ears fall,
but his eyes remain fixed
on the now fleeing flock.

Thistles have clambered out of the ground,
buzzards drift high above.
Now a screeching pheasant takes flight,
my spaniel's footsteps are like
a skimmed stone on the brook -
he tries turning it into a runway.

After a week of hot sun
we find the garden has been iced
thickly, like Christmas cake.
A blackbird on the bird table
scoops snow in his beak.

A day later,
and the primroses have survived
the snow, the apple tree buds too.

The country's sparrow population
hides in the hedges,
bread in their beaks bearding their faces.

A song thrush lands on the lawn.
Making a stance like Jesus,
a worm tethering him down,
he flutters once into the air
exposing his cartoon trouser feathers
before he pulls the worm free
and breaks it in two with his beak.

Then the hedgerow birds scatter,
and all is still,
but for the sparrow hawk,
disappointed this time,
skittering up and away.

We keep our new baby in a box
pierced with holes.
The fresh-musty smell, familiar
to kittens, puppies and poults
wafts out when we lift the lid,
tinged with the sickly scent of fresh-cut grass.
Curled up in the grassy whorl within, he lies.
We pipette drops of milk into his mouth
through a straw, and bury him
on the compost heap a day later.