Too neat, too efficient, too soon –
nothing good comes of that: so say I,
after five days at the monastery,
doing nothing but watch my ragged breath,
when, back home, I inspect the nest in the shed,
safe in the globed scaffolding of the cowl
that never got as far as the chimney pot,
no longer set with speckled turquoise eggs,
full of breathing feathers, four pierced beaks
that follow me as I pass, eight pairs
of eyes watching me as I go in,
as I go out – just one more bit of the world
these small brown wonders will fledge in,
open-winged, open-hearted, sky-bound.