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.