Busy, as the new shoots harden,

Birds are breeding in my garden.

In and out of nesting boxes;

Working off their little sockses;

Caterpillars disappearing;

Babies shouting, out of hearing;

Growing, growing every second.

My, but how the wild is fecund.

Every hedgerow is exploding.

Each small copse is overloading.

With a vigour that increases,

Nests are lined with downy fleeces.

Only when the shadows deepen

Have the chicks grown overcheepen.

Breathing time for parent rover,

Till, at dawn, it starts all over.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer May 2014


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