Sparrows of the Mound

A new cold morn

Pivots around a tidy cottage,

Built upon primrose, dog mercury and bluebells.

The meady glow from the window

Graces the mound from which it observes.

Crystalline yet sap-like, its light beckons forth

A flurry of chestnuts

That scamper beneath a rowan tree

For whatever scraps remain

Of yesterday’s hanging feast.

From a telescopic haze

One emerges into focus!

Sated and plump, its discerning eye –

Encircled by a thin strap of white –

Peers back with curiosity.

An embroidery of chewy, crumby fats -

Speckled with dusty oats and peanut chips -

Creates a muck of its prim, black bib.

It dons a flashy cape; whispy cotton plumes, felted with artisanal care,

Threads of black and white, streaked on red jasper.

Its creamy vest, yet unsullied by glutton,

Inflates with a quick shiver,

And a tiny racing furnace toasts the entrapped air,

Slowly thawing out the toes, worn from foraging

In snowy tides and ice frosting.

It is swiftly joined by a dozen hard-hatted friends

Bobbing upwards; bouncing lipid rafts.

Like ink spots on soft pearls, neatly arranged

And scrunched together for warmth

In a snug hawthorn net.

There were many before;

There are so few left now.

The family swells into a mixed flock,

A tangled smear of brilliant hues,

Born from a palette

Fifty million years a-painting.

They build to a chorus of chirrups and shrieks,

A welcome cacophony

In malnourished fields, overstretched for miles around;

An ironed flannel of un-nature,

Sterile, drained, depleted.

Feathers and beaks thinned to a drip,

Not least in the bleak hold of winter.

This sympathetic mound is all they have left,

Feeding from the palm of a quaint little cottage,

Unaware of the erasure upon which it was built.