by SUZI MEZEI
The terracotta birdfeeder blends
with the garden; even in July when
mud-coloured skeleton-boughs
balance it on disarrayed stick-fingers
that point to nowhere. In summer it sways
in torrid gusts above a matching bath
of stilled water dotted with feathers,
infused with sunken gumnuts. Most
days, we measure an array of seeds
by tablespoons leave oats
mixed with millet and sorghum in
neat piles under the shadow of the
clay dome where crackles and swoops
weave through doorless portals, dishevel
the sparse couch grass beneath
with kernel casings and there’s us
behind the window glass stopping every
now and then to watch as if they were
the next episode screened on a vast tv.