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Geraldine Green


this moment up
each shell and turn
of the tide
each swell, bob and snort
of the seal
each tiny robotic movement
each daft dance of us all
snail, shell, ant, moth, or
spider in the bath
each crab-appled tree
each nook-crannied dream

I could parcel it into a symphony
Bach perhaps, or maybe Verdi –
some kind of green orchestral calling
of blackbirds, crows, rooks and starlings,
small, black silhouettes perched
on telephone wires

wood pigeons, their precarious
balancing on copper beeches
their snatching of beech nuts
their knowledge of winter.


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