Poem 171: The Bird Table

this is the way the light moves
down between the potting sheds,
creating under this shallow leaf’s rib cage
a lighter darkness,
etched all around in soft green shadow
by the brilliant warmth
of this surprise of Autumn sunshine,
carefully approaching
my cool thicket of garden
with the memory
of this summers fine alchemy
forestalling the first knock of winter
already heard in the damp echo
of this pre-dawn frosting now resolutely
encased and leaning
into the shadow of the shed wall as
a darker lightness
from which the cabbage white
swims out from a pool of like hued
dropped rose petals as
the last charge of the white brigade.

as white as yesterdays bread
that I broke for the birds
now drying out in today’s sunshine
on the bird table spread out
before me the crumbled invitation for
the smaller of the flock
to attend before they are scattered
by the sudden shock
and clatter of larger wings
fast rising against this altar
of thin and sun whitened air
into which the scattered explode
into the broadest hallelujah
flight of heaven bound angels
the sight of which remembers,
that this is why the light moves.