A change of scene brings foreign yellow birds,
exploring the hedge and the dustbins,
landing on the lawn like petals.
I approach one and try coaxing it on my hand, but my signs
are in a language they cannot understand.
Its movements are windswept, suggesting
another climate, gushes of wind, an ominous sky.
I keep my distance: back off, somewhere
beyond the garden wall and the rose hedge.
I follow the bird sounds and am followed
by specs of yellow, when I leave through the gate,
across the path, past the lake. Then I’m lost
in a maze of bracken and boarded-up sheds, an old swing
with a broken seat, a rotten tree stump. The twitter
of yellow birds overhead never ceasing.
I want to reach them, teach them my signs
and learn their language.
The old gardener shrugs.
Ask the barn owl-
he’s not from around here either, but might translate.
He leans forward on his rusty old spade,
scratches his neck, squints a long moment.
He speaks, and the wind blows in reply.
Petals tumble down, my scarf strung around my neck
flutters and flaps in an eerie breeze.
And here they come: a flock of yellow birds circling,
out of the blue, settling like songs on the old man’s coat,
his boots, his cap, his raised arm.
