She hung simple things from the bare apple tree, things like mirrors, ribbons, bells and bird feeders, things to attract the robins and the finches. But then the crows came scaring the robins and finches away, this annoyed her, this drove her to the verge of insanity.

She had an idea though , a terrible one, but an idea. She decided to hang strips of bacon from the tree , bacon laced with poisons, all sorts of poisons , poisons for rats , for weeds , even the type fit for human consumption. Poisons to make them sick, poisons to make the ******* fall from the tree.But crows are much, more intelligent than the average human ,the crows watched the fat lady, observing her murderous ways.  

But only the finches and the robins fed from the flesh that dangled from the naked apple tree , only the finches and robins fell to the ground, only the finches and the robins died a horrible dragged out death.This pushed her over the edge , now she just sits and squawks to her self day in and day out, hiding from the flock of crows.

I pondered, in reverie, about the endless blue sky
and why the finches never returned for their morning bathe in the sun.
I suspect that is they have found grounds to feed down south but never understood why they left.

It was when the finches arrive back at the fields, that she came to me
asking for meat and bread for her belly.
My senses, finely tuned, remember how lovely she was.
I could taste her in my dreams, smell her in my sheets, and hear her whispers, putting me to bed to dream

Alas, she has left for business and is never to be returning. I send her absolutes through winds that pass through the valley. But she cannot hear the thing that would matter most.

These words that I speak of cannot be just spoken, but has to be noticed
by her and only her eyes for it is the acts of affection that turns the volume up in her mind. It is the acts of the pale moon to see blindly in the darkness.

I'm a ******* coward but so is she. We cannot see the light in a dark corner of the fools mind for he is a fool like I.  I will search for her in every woman I will ever meet and, perhaps, will see a lonesome road and forever think of her, searching for the finches of last fall.

I will spoil the dogs while I wait for her to finish searching for her birds. They will be decent, but I fear for her and her reverie of the birds returning. They are free birds like she and I fear solitude in heavy doses.

Oh, the return.

It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.

The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?

The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.

But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.

Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.

It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.