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Tina Negus

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Lunch in the Garden

Midsummer's noon,
sun high, shadows short:
lunch in the garden.
Seeded rye, cherry tomatoes,
pastrami, cheese.
Quietness dispelled as a hurtling shape crashes
clumsily through the flowering shrubs,
something thrashes against the fence
and is still,
then explodes into view, circles and is gone.
Whatever was that?

Peace returns, uneasily,
the blackbirds fidgeting, fussing repeatedly:
beware, beware, beware…
Whatever it was is still around,
and once again comes rocketing through the twigs
on rapier wings, tail out-fanned,
rises above us, before it turns, deftly,
and once more is gone.
A sparrow hawk, and it missed again!

And still the blackbirds chip and squawk
told you so, told you, told you …
And the sparrows cheep anxiously in the hedge.
Surely it will not try again?
And then, like an avenging angel it appears,
wings half-furled scimitars cutting the perfumed air,
talons outstretched on yellow feet,
barred flanks and gimlet eye,
and makes off with a fledgling in its grasp:
lunch in the garden.

 

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