This poem is taken from Stand 236, 20(4) December 2022 - February 2023.

Michael Greavy Two Poems
The Nest

Late Fall we hack the arbour down:
a twig-swish, moss-stitch, cross-hatch
in the hedge – fledged, to let, no eggs.

You cup it close as if to know
a hearth or breast, a crèche.
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