While I fill my hours at other tasks
beneath the flicker of stolen days,
a thought strays to a light-footed bird,
tweed brown and grey . . .
It chances the open for a seed,
until a bolder one floats in
with its colour to chase clouds away . . .
Then a finch who will leave soon,
and a titmouse who will stay . . .
And over them on strands of cumulus
a tumult of white wings . . .
Theirs is the sound of October passing.
It rings within the round hills and
meets the lake . . .
where small fishing birds pause to listen . . .
And eagles, weary of the wind and its promises,
settle into their night roost
among the naked poplars.