Coming on to Sunset

It is the time of crows and their fussy bedtime rituals,
plus the odd cooing dove, in from the country
and clattering magpies screech like old demented squirrels.
A rare swarm of flying ants earlier

came storming from their insect holes;
each potential queen with a little male jockey
riding her – pumping her – full of ant sperm,
I surmise. And I would like to summon butterflies

in hordes and I would like to feed swallows
at sunset as the shade grows;
fill their beaks with chitin stuffed with squish
for their belovèd young, their pets, their chickadees...

The village clock chimes seven times,
heralding sundown, signalling dinner
and the cheap red wine
that gives me a headache.

Clive Donovan 

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Clive Donovan would be pleased to hear them.