Paul Bavister
Jackdaw
A spiny chick, slate grey in white ash
struggles from the fireplace to your cupped hands.
The chimney rustles with another nest.
We both know I should have netted the pot -
your sigh says I’ve been mollycoddled,
I’m soft, washed out, washed up.
You wrap the chick in a cloth.
I bring a pinch of cat food from the fridge.
By autumn I’ll forget to knock out the nest.
Then you’ll stamp from the smoke filled room
point at the chimney and curse me.
This year’s Jackdaw will have joined
the others swirling up on your rising heat
then dropping at your feet to be fed.
You will curse every chick you’ve turned
into tatty, stinking, useless birds.
Page(s) 46
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