Temptation by Andrea Bogdweller

I,

like my friend, the bluetit,

am waiting for the crowds to abate.

It's twilight,

the sparrows and crows and great tits,

are off elsewhere.

I 

have a mission to accomplish.

There's temptation

in the form of rhubard and custard,

rhubarb tarts with a crusy edge,

(whipped cream optional but recommended),

rhubarb jam potentially.

BUT

There's a wall to climb

or a gate to test

and the abandoned plot

appears as dangerous and equally seductive

to me

as the nut feeder, perchance

does to my little blue tit pal.

Fortified with two healthy 

mugs of Campo Viejo,

I move stealthily past the 

still spherical dandelion clocks.

The heavy iron gate 

gives way with a kick of the oul  boot

and a couple of nifty shoulder shoves.

I enter unfamiliar terrain.

I speculate,

I deliberate.

I scan the dilapidated yard.

Rusted scatterings of metal

crusted with red iron oxide

ancient plastic pots

dirty nets hide interiors

I don't want to see.

There, to my right,

standing steadfast is an ivy clad tree,

one yellow billed blackbird flits it's way homeward,

drawing my eye to a jungle

lush, brambled, nettleful

thriving with a living unseen unknown multitude

of bugs and beasties.

It is wild.

The blackberry bushes rise up like

reams of barbed wire.

The border is closed.

Access is barred.

I stall and turn on my heel,

happy to have experienced this wonderland,

content to share my last vino with me, myself and I 

and my blue tit friend.