Thursday, 4 December 2008


Running down the long mossy wall, all fuss and flutter, like he is limping in too tight shoes, he clocks in at dawn every day, like a regular watchman, careful of every second. Narrowing days leave him less time on the job, but the season is closing. And soon, he will be gone.

He settles in the broken basket of twisting and twining vines, hidden there, in the russets and chestnuts of branches already looking for Spring. And from within this private city orchard, he guards the last dusky drooping fruits from the nose of next door's lanky grey cat. 

Guardian, harvester, connoisseur. Purple wine stains his clucking golden beak as he trips home at twilight.