polished pollen shy away
from mother catkins
to greet the starlings
thronging above, round
and round, fresh from the stars
that bore them
dancing through late winter
each unaware of the other
and so
engage with the copper
beeches unable to shed their seed
as the autumn fell to early
flutter along the willow’s
white lambkins, bundle
up in the branches with mistletoe
round and round, fresh
and green in the bare greyness
the featherly sky blinks
and it’s evening
sing us a song of sunsets
sing with the starlings
