Warbler by Michael Gallagher

A busy bobbing, scarce noted, half heeded,
mid-distant in the dahlia bed; a wagtail,
donning camouflage of thrown-out ash,
a greyer rouge, perhaps? Next day I grew
curious, questioned its persistence,
reached for binoculars, marked the
primrose yellow of a willow warbler.
She scratched, not ash but hoovered thrash,
had found, indeed, therein, a vein
rich in moulted terrier hair; ideal
for her hidden lair by Smerlagh's stream.
I focused in; her nib agape
with glinting fibres, no tangled tousle
here, but aligned and paralleled, tanned sheaves
drawn and stranded by beak alone:
A Kalahari visitor alights, perchance,
on Kerry's far-off field, affirms
awesome Nature's happy happenstance

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