The Intruder

The Hawthorn top is silent, quite stillIn the mimsy mist-filled morning light

Fresh green leaves mask the lethal thorns.Its berries, an invitation for a tempting blackbird

feast.

The magpie comes with a silent glideA blur of midnight blue, black and white.

He cackles with glee at his lucky Bejewelled find.

The bush trembles with hopeful fearThe branches bounce patiently

As the magpie leaps with intentionConsuming the prize-winning berries.

With the Hawthorn abandoned, it feelsA little more empty and derobed.

Juniper Class – September 2017