Sitting in the hoped-for warmth of a spring eve,
unseen jays screech from neighbouring garden trees.

The fairy roses sprinkle perfume for bees
and ladybirds. The last of the rain drips

from sycamore leaves. One crow flies
over the leaning fence, its mate forgets

to follow, stays to watch the dancing dollies
suspended like an in-breath. The air moves

through the sound of young sparrow-hawks
calling for their parents to hurry and feed them,

as cars hum and hush along the A-roads:
the house rests, its rooms full of silence;

I close my eyes and listen to the blood
pulsing in my ears, wondering if

my heart really sounds like this.