Birds, light as butterflies, circle a lone tree
black etch feather on the side of the hill.
Almost-spring air blows around almost-buds,
when I close my eyes there’s a rhythm in me,
a rock-a bye-baby breathe rhythm.
The wood pigeon pair search for scraps,
one flew with a twig just now,
in time, two white eggs will lie secret.
It is all just beginning –
the land quickens and tree clocks wake.
Rose Cook 