I sit here listening to the birds:
before the migrants come -
before their words are lost to other voices.

Listen, there's a wren, loud for its size;
consider, the final trill,
that rattle, like a signature, a coda.

There's a dunnock, shrill and scratchy;
dapper in its own way, a touch colonial,
needs a veranda, a punka-wallah.

Is that a robin? yes, it must be,
nothing else as purposeful, pugnacious;
     but wistful too:
listen, it decants another note -
the setting sun, like burgundy, like claret.