Writing me Down

Wednesday, June 15, 2005


I glanced up at the silver birch, and realised that the dark patch where the nesting box should be is no longer there. A quick poke around in the bushes underneath revealed nothing. I know the blue tits fledged a few days ago, but how did they manage to take their house with them? If only I could do the same. My eyes are tired from trawling the internet for the prefect house-to-rent. A neat pile of papers lies downstairs waiting to go to the solicitor. Our sale is moving. We are moving. Uprooting.


Last week there were squeaks
And blue-tits busy
Bearing bugs to tiny beaks.

Today a bare space
Confronts my gaze
Where their box used to be.

If only we
Could leave our home
So freely.

If only flying the nest was easy.


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