Poetgal

Across the quiet street, day dusted down
and bonfires in the air, a blackbird:
its harsh teek teek warning, insistent.

Up the twitten, the flat building
silhouettes black and matt against
a peachskin sky, pink-orange, alight,

perched up high, alert, blackie
number two. Random lonely falling
phrases call through sagging tangles

of clematis, over the flint wall
tense with foliage, among the sticky
weeded wilderness, slipping in between
 
meadowgrass, ribwort, ox-eyed daisy,
sleepily bedding down plants in green,
teasing the hidden occupants there:

now the food-gathering has stopped,
the panting calms, no more rustling,
their tiny bodies still and lulled.

And then, quiet. Obeying the moon and
the ashen air, just the angular misshapes
looming, the yellow eye in the night.