From the long window on the half landing, I saw,
almost as soon as you had filled the small bird feeders
under the pine and come inside, the big beasts land
to eat the scattered seeds – three wood pigeons, two turtle doves
and a solitary magpie – then a cat appear, the birds scramble
and you again, shooing.
From where the hawk stoops, I heard the magpie’s
irrelevant chatterings, saw a tableau of live flesh;
saw our Victorian suburb from where the airplane flies –
heard nothing above the thrumming of the engines;
from beyond the stratosphere, saw somewhere
still not yet silenced by the enveloping yellow
of the Sahara or the Arctic’s melting blue.
From the long window, I heard the next track begin –
late Billie Holiday, ‘Dancing Cheek to Cheek’ –
heard her miss the key change yet again, promised myself
never to play it yet again.