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The early bird

A small greenish bird flew across my track.

From its flight and jizz I said a warbler

And waited some time but it didn’t come back.

It’s a long way to here from Africa,

When a pile of brushwood is all that’s here,

Waiting upon a neighbour with a match.

And there are neighbours' cats forever near.

Is that why you flew to this heap of brash?

The last day of Feb is when you dashed past

Me. It seemed far too early in the year.

And no matter how you flew and so fast,

Were you fleeing from there, or coming here?

One week of heat does not a summer make.

I hope it doesn’t mean you came before

We could provide the food you’d like to take

Or protect you from the cats’ killing claws.

© R M Meyer

Winswell Water, North Devon, March 2019