Winter Menu
                                                    
There are eight old apple trees next door,
today they bear no foliage or fruit
the ground rock hard, frosted and messy
with the detritus of autumn’s fall.
At stairway window overlooking
I spy a single fieldfare scrumping.
A shade of grey sky crossed with a wing
of rust, silent, purposeful, urgent
imprinted survival patterns.
There’s a banquet in our feeders too
I ponder his preference for apple.

 Anita Davies

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Anita Davies would be pleased to hear them