Once – how final and nostalgic that word sounds –

each year we had starlings nesting in the eaves,

and small flocks of sparrows twittering

in the bushes. Though the fluting wood pigeons,

the bel canto blackbirds, the clever robins

and the subtle wrens kept faith, one year

the starlings did not return, and the sparrows,

except for the odd passer-by, vanished.

 

This year the prodigal sparrows have begun

to return – a couple of pairs nesting

in the ivy. They and their offspring

peck nervously at the feeders hanging

from a dead branch of the aging plum tree.

At this year’s end I shall be eighty four.

And at my back I sometimes hear the absence

of the starlings, the skittering  of Death’s

nimble feet, and the sound of soft laughter.

 

***

 

If there were reincarnation I would wish

to return as a sparrow in a five star

hotel with Mediterranean airs;

with palms and olives and weeping figs,

bougainvillea and oleander;

where other birds are focussed on menace

like the hooded crow or stateliness

like the purple herons flying west

or just singing like the gold finches;

where the cat who has made the restaurants

its fiefdom is plump and insouciant,

and sleeps on cushions in the piano bar,

and the other cats prowl ostentatiously

among undergrowth on the margins of the grounds;

to be there preferably in the mid

and high seasons when guests, eating al fresco,

are careless with baklava and feta,

and broadcast sunflower seeds on balconies;

to enjoy the boisterous camaraderie

of meal times and the solitary quietness

as night falls; to hop and to fly as if

the whole world were ours.