A Two Hand Tale

The nest is gone. But not
without a trace. A dirty blotch
within a crook of cable
stands as witness.
Year on year house martins
on a mission swooped deftly
through its funnel. Our co-tenants.
Until the usurpation.
A troop of sparrows,
while the martins wintered,
commandeered it.
An era of dissension had begun.
They screeched day-long at decibels
beyond the legal limit,
coercing, carping, coaxing.
Luring from the nest
is mortal combat. And futile
while the ill-glimpsed world
looms tantamount to hell. At last,
of course, the fledglings flew
and peace descended. And we
had time to steel ourselves
for next year’s clutch.

The balcony is quiet this spring
but all the birds are elsewhere.
And when they paint the smudge
and others sit here
will that arc of cable
pass as laxness or be the clue
that cites a two hand tale?
One hand abandoned symmetry
when it encountered
a hub of strife and nurture.
And the other, guided
by demands of hygiene
scoured it from existence
with a spade.

​

​

​

​

​

No Rain

I check the window.
The ocean slaps the wall below
and clouds are scudding.
But there’s no rain.
Out the door and down the path
my brute and I go marching.
Inside, as I typed, he lay
and brooded. Outside alone,
fields vying for inspection,
he skulked about the yard
and eyed the door.
But now we’re off together
and he’s prancing, bucking, whirling
his approval. I’m infected.
Reflection, speculation
are suspended. We’re
freewheeling. He’s on
a trail of smells that must be tested,
I’m stepping in the pawprints of his quest.
This ridge that’s under snuffle
spans the headland. The ocean,
on my left hand, melds with sky.
We’re down the other
towards a fern-fringed lake.
He, voracious at the sight
of so much water, laps and slavers.
A gallon later, we shuffle
up a rise to meet the sea
upon the other shore.
His eyes are gunsights.
This water’s not for drinking.
It’s a target. He jounces
belly-high in seaweed,
around a rotting hulk and,
after splashing anything nose-worthy,
scrabbles back. At the ditch
I snag him by the collar
to let a car by, the driver
lifts a finger in salute.
And here’s the quay - a squawk
of gulls, bewailing our intrusion,
as he, unscrupled, smiling
on the seawall leaps and war-whoops,
keeping them in flight.
A glance across the bay affirms
The Bens are watching

and with the self-same gusto we return.
House in sight, he rushes up the drive
as if he never wished to leave it.
brushes by me indoors, mauls
his bedding, and, uninclined
to write a word about it,
slips to sleep.