Each November the Fieldfares come
And take up residence in our old apple tree
And each year the apples hold their place
Against the frost and slicing Northern winds
Incongruous inhabitants of a winter scene
Come January the birds have gone, save two
Who hunt each other round the tree
Ignoring rare abundance
They have no time to feed
As senseless rivalry provides no respite
Then one morning a single bird remains
Still chasing it’s departed foe
Whilst clinging remnants of a summer past
Lose patience and throw themselves to earth
To lie beside the rival’s lifeless form.
