I grew basil for my bird
Every year of his twelve
He didn't make it to his thirteenth
So neither did the basil
Neglect turned it dry and brown.
If the first death was an omen
Of something dark
Tragic in its unexpectedness
The second was self inflicted
An accusing finger round a doorway
'You did this'
And I had no rebuttal
To the first or the second
Only the sad longing for
Bird song and the fresh herbal scent.