Fault-lines
The blackbird must chase his
muriel:
you cannot fault him or
forgive,
it’s what he does, he
doesn’t know better
just his biological
imperative.
You’re checking your watch,
even if
she promised sometime after
one,
but you know they see you as
a gift,
so she’s notoriously early
at arrivals.
Turfing two toddlers out of her
car,
one four, the other two -
glad to see you
of course, running down the
path,
with everything in the house
to trash.
And that’s OK, it’s what
they do,
once the blackbird corners
his muriel,
without a clue what’s coming
next,
does something wicked in the twigs.
Ah, this nonsense is
romantic tripe,
he has no brain for reason
or surprise,
yet he’s cunning enough to
take flight,
and what’s left behind is on
the sofa,
twatting around with a smart
phone,
tweeting about why she’s
left alone,
doesn’t raise a hand from the armrest
whilst nestlings are stripping
your nest.
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