From behind her veil of dandelion
And daffodil, she wiped sleep from his eyes,
Lulled him from a Winter’s hibernation.
There were new seeds to be sown, grassy lawns
To be mown, clutter untangled from sheds
And outhouses, his list trailed across
Well thumbed pages. He took another sip
Of tea. Hadn’t he read somewhere, sometimes
It was better to let nature take her course.
One paw touched a cold kerbstone. I thought she was a jill. Her form too feminine for a jack. Against the wet tarmac I saw long ears with black tips, longer hind legs, distinguishing her from a rabbit. The fur on her back was dense, brown and grizzled, yellow colouration on her flanks led to a soft white underbelly. Maybe she was a witch? Her eyes were still open; startled as they searched for the moon.
He had never seen a sparrowhawk this close. Three metres at most, as he camouflaged himself behind Aloe Vera’s across his window. Blue silvered wings shrouded her prey. Powerful limbs and speckled chest absorbed dawn sunlight.
Peck by peck she dismantled. A carpet of young pigeon feathers laid to confirm her regal status. His slight twitch alerted her. Sparrowhawk and carcass gone. Upstairs, his 6 a.m. alarm, a lament for a grieving mother, floated through the Mede.