The Bullfinches

Four bullfinches in the
budding tree, two girls,
two boys, their bright
blushing chests greeting
the sunblush morning of
mist and stillness.  Fat
buds are juicy to eat.
Two tiny bluetits chased
them off:  this is our
tree.  The brief glimpse
of beauty, God's life
infusing our space, ephemeral,
heart-rending the beauty
and sorrow.  Sunblush
day kisses all the sleeping
plants and trees, waking
them up to an invincible
summer.  And the bullfinches
are back, happy and busy
in this still day
of beauty and a sunblush
light of April Spring.
Sparrows are nesting,
congregating in noisy
jovial crowds, flashing
past in races,
chattering.  I love it here,
this peaceful place
after toil, disgrace.
I will be a bullfinch
with a sunblush chest
munching on the fruits
of my labours,
happy at new growth 
fresh to the palate,
busy and languid
in the cool-coloured
mists and the still air
of early Spring.  I too
will be fed by blossoming.

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