When the sun has changed its setting
a wakening up of the stillness
where songs will slowly move
until a feathered wagon will pick up
and cart the load away. If you
watch a titmouse his neck conveyor
belts a caterpillar, seeds rock rumble
down as in a quarry site.
They are what they eat. Each morning
I am awoken to the gabble, waffle in tune
clack. All sounds the same to me
though my left and right grapple, grapple, grapple.
By Gareth Culshaw
Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.