Sparrows are busy little birds - the female lays the eggs and the pair raise the chicks but the male helps nurture the young. I like sparrows. Here are a few sparrow poems.
A poem written after watching the sparrows feeding on the tree outside my window.
In Sight
No one knows the thoughts of the sparrow
that flits in the macrocarpa unafraid of angels
gathering a theologian’s pin;
or the mutterings of a jealous god
who counts its death a tragedy;
briefly it sits, fluttering cautiously,
unseen I worship its beauty.
A poem when sitting on the beach in Takapuna sharing my lunch with the sparrows
Lunch Guests
on the beach where
the sea constantly washes
the sand, fifty sparrows squabble
for crumbs and perch on my fingers
or madly scramble in the breeze
denying each other the rights
to my favours, quickly diving, flying:
brown and grey,
dun coloured breasts preening,
slim feet dancing double yous’
in the sand –
or are there more – in my garden
where cats stalk unsuccessful;
and blackbirds guest themselves
at table – while the fantail
and the tui
beg for scraps.
On a trip to get bread and a newspaper.
Sunday Morning
mist gives up its ghostly mantle
to the sun, shuddering diamonds
hang on gossamer, while
wax eyes and fantails dance
to a faerie song,
by my side the stream
mocks me with her tune,
and the path counts my footfalls.
I listen to the gentle starburst
while the rain, with bated breath,
waits on fresh washed leaves
glistening above the friendly shadow,
and hebes catch the sun’s
healing warmth as I turn
homeward, letting the music
of the day fill my eyes.
I rejoice in the spring song
of the hedgerows
reaching green and yellow
to the sun, and multicoloured
impatiens busy colonising
the undergrowth
and between the showers
my fence is filled with sparrows.
In the rain
wet boughs
shelter the chattering sparrows
while ferns wash their fingers
and in the rain my cat
shakes diamonds from her fur.