Temptation by Andrea Bogdweller
like my friend, the bluetit,
am waiting for the crowds to abate.
the sparrows and crows and great tits,
are off elsewhere.
have a mission to accomplish.
in the form of rhubard and custard,
rhubarb tarts with a crusy edge,
(whipped cream optional but recommended),
rhubarb jam potentially.
There's a wall to climb
or a gate to test
and the abandoned plot
appears as dangerous and equally seductive
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 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.