The edible world is being whistled into being,
aired feathers and dilation, the wavering
of reinscribed veins. Pale sun and then
the arrival of colour,
saffron waters from the field,
the eye level and utmost green
from which every disappointment
descends. Everything changed
but when? A Roman road
not abandoned so much
as interred by default, drought
let it show through,
trim, optimum. Bent grass shines.
Her nest is spittle, moss,
the petal from a plastic bag.
A millipede curls in her beak
in its armour, calorific fact
and not something apart.
_____________
James Peake’s second full-length collection, The Star in the Branches, was published in February 2022. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including The Spectator, Wild Court, and most recently, Bad Lilies. He lives in London and works in indie podcasting.