Parliament of fowls

Poem by Jonathan Wooding

Inaudible as force, a blackbird descends –
she’s charred sky-chaff, (I want to say) incombustible.
Winter’s bonfire’s out for this blank bird,

tipped now on a fulcrum
high in our fruitless apple tree, but
listen! her canticle incommensurable.

I catch, too, a twitching missel thrush picketing
sogged leaves, cast off twigs,
muddy embroidering worms, an overhanging

rose. Sing, silent sky sprite
with the small birds, over force’s vast kingdom.
And precatory chaffinch, too –

illustrissimo in slate-blue and chestnut –
a self-illumining fireflake,
no longer tacitly stirring; trilling still.

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