An old conifer, gnarled and weathered,
crowned by a nest and two chicks,
striped, hook-beaked, featherless wings
like a half cooked Christmas lunch.
Their throne is webbed by wires,
charging electric crackles
bestowed by nervous birdwatchers
fearful for their new charges.
Around the trunk, indistinguishable
from the bushes it infests,
a wreath of wartime barbed wire
spilled into the undergrowth
as a warning and defence,
the work of a self-appointed
royal guard, dedicated and alert,
the natural enemies of egg thieves.
(Hi guys. So that's the poem for this weekend. Stay tuned to this blog for my verdict on the series finale of Sherlock, coming soon.)
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