Gulls raided the Blackbirds nest
we’d been watching, the day
we told Molly about it
– and we’d never fit in again –
squalling darkly on the wing,
West of the swings and bowling-green,
for their portion of chick;
as the nesting birds slammed them.
People spread picnics below
and their offspring played loudly.
We returned and gathered up
the teal and speckled egg-shells,
flecked with yolk and blood;
while the arboreal choir carried on,
singing their blasted throats out.
Earlier version first published in Obsessed By Pipeworknd