Day Six and poem number two . This poem is called The Bird Watcher
Picking through the thicket
he stops at the sight of
beating wings
close-packed at the feeders.
Chaffinches;
Great Tits;
Yellowhammers.
A birdwatchers delight,
artfully perched for a moment,
seed snatched
then gone.
Back and forth,
back and forth.
Two yellow discs
in a mass of black fluff
grow wider
as they watch
the exhibition
in anticipation.
An hour ago he lay gentle
in your lap
warm and tender.
Claws
opened and closed,
opened and closed
to the rhythm of a soft purr.
Now he stands in wait,
ready to wreak havoc.
