THEY DON'T WANT ME HERE...

They Don’t Want Me Here…

The finches, the tits and the scurrying dunnocks

Don’t want me here,

Sat upon a garden chair

Pressed into chunky stones,

For they are nervous about

Encroaching and approaching the feeders,

As a pallid sun still glares 

Through slim angled boughs.

An occasional wind ploughs

And gusts through guarded conifers

In the March chill, lacking cheer,

For I am confined, resigned

To self isolation,

Self pacification

But those finches, those tits and those tarrying dunnocks

Don’t want me here

Still, as I shiver upon a garden chair,

Crunching into chunky stones,

Overwhelmed by self doubt…

Pete Ray

27th March 2020…