What of the nest? The nest itself is now harder to see through the fresh green leaves –
and, since the incident with the crows, I’ve only seen the magpies once more. Perhaps they are lying low and incubating their eggs, or perhaps they’ve been reading Louis MacNiece –
In a between world, a world of amber,
The old cat on the sand-warm window-sill
Sleeps on the verge of nullity.
Spring sunshine has a quality
Transcending rooks and the hammering
Of those who hang new pictures,
Asking if it is worth it
To clamour and caw, to add stick to stick for ever.
If it is worth while really
To colonise any more the already populous
Tree of knowledge, to portion and reportion
Bit of broken knowledge brittle and dead,
Whether it would not be better
To hide one’s head in the warm sand of sleep
And be embalmed without hustle or bother.
The rooks bicker heckle bargain always
And market carts lumber –
Let me in the calm of the all-humouring sun
Also indulge my humour
And bury myself beyond creaks and cawings
In a below world, a bottom world of amber.