I heard about the master
who birds came to
to rest on his palm
inspecting a crumb,
but then, then,
were held there by
his tiny reflex; they couldn’t
push off
though ever so light their bone,
their muscles weightless,
his fingers and tendons so
free and weightless;
therefore it would flick
invisibly, the poor bird,
bewildered
until the man withheld himself,
and then the little thing could lift –
And look at the feeder, how, at half-past-eight
in the damp Welsh dawn
they swarm, in green
and shiny brown and blue
gone mad for seeds
and spin, and secretly glitter
back to the trees
