War poem (3)

And then, – not suddenly,

but unexpectedly still –,

Like a silverfish jiggling in the knife box,

Hope returns.

Last night, in the clear wintery sky, against a backdrop

Of half a Dreamworks-moon, and stars,

A blackbird sang purposefully, almost too purposefully.

Who was he trying to impress except – perhaps – me?

In the messy backyard it quivered on a branch

Just a few yards from me

Looking right and left, or nowhere in particular;

Singing, and being content with that.

‘What are you doing outside,

Come in for dinner,’

my wife implored.

This morning, my daughter and I

Heard a woodpecker, but we couldn’t spot it.

It was annoyingly unspottable in the large tree

On the other side of the river, pecking, – pocking –,

Working on a coffin, no less.

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