There’s a hubbub of sparrows
in the bald boughs of the beech tree.
They chatter and chirp, twitter and cheep.
They must be swapping
stories of spring.
March 31, 2019
Late January
By hjs
This entry was posted on Sunday, March 31st, 2019 at 8:11 am and posted in All poems, Moments. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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Poems
- Cadair Idris
- Rattray Head
- Topsell’s Beasts revisited
- Earth Rising
- Mantua
- Carrying Jack
- Tourists
- My Acceptance Speech
- A Balance
- Map reading at 60
- My Covid-19 Song
- Jack at sixteen
- New Year’s Day
- Llanthony
- Patrishow
- Sunday morning at the canal
- Lunatics
- Too late
- The Master of Sleep
- Writing
- Late January
- Snow on the sidewalk
- Cat. Field. Morning. Midday. Dusk
- Migration
- Triumphs of Design
- Monteraponi
- Infinity Pool
- Old dog, dreamhunting
- Thaw
- Operating instructions
- Chickentime
- Recipe for happiness
- On Washington Crossing the Delaware
- Ellis Island
- Walking on Thin Air
- John Brown in the Met
- Wheelchair access
- New York Scenes
- Party
- Salisbury Cathedral
- A lesson from the DSLR workshop
- Too steep
- Footwear
- Paper thin
- Newfoundland I
- Newfoundland II
- El Horcajo
- Cotswold Graveyard
- Uisge
- Grizzly bears and other surprises
- The View
- In the Still of the Night
- November Recipe
- Yellowstone
- Transcendence in the RV Park
- Burqa
- Subversive dictionary
- Collioure
- Prague awakening
- Love story, Midwest
- Birds of the early morning
- The Undoing of Flight
- History (i)
- In-between
- Birthday
- The Fierceness of Badgers
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