#amwriting #poem #poetry Coutning the Unseen Bird-nests

Counting the Unseen Bird-nests

It is with mild surprise, I see again
the tint of mauve leaves
spread within the autumn trees. That refrain
I hum each year, of hankies left knot-free,
as once more I have carelessly forgotten
to remember to learn the names. Perhaps
this is how death feels: or Parkinsons:
either way it is strange. At the bottom
of this train of thought, on a bench, wrapped
against the first refreshing cold pale sun

jagging between almost rain, I decide
it would be fun to gatecrash my funeral.
To sit at the back, with a pad jotting
the names of those who came: who laughs, who cried,
who came for the white wine and sausage roll.
The nail-tappers, the cheque-cashers prying
in every conversation for their gain.
And then that certain misty light, shifts, lifts,
soaps away the stain,
and I find myself thinking of Christmas.