Keening

In limbo, on a still March day, the streets
are gritty and the sun papered over
and the great-tits in bare trees are keening
Weegie Weegie Weegie.

A man is blocking a hole in the soffit
under the dentist’s roof where the jackdaws
last year raised their chicks.
But he might not know.

My thoughts are moths. They rise up, powdery grey,
and fly off, leaving dusty residue.
In this isolation, far from my chicks,
I don’t know where I am, or how, or who.

Above my head a great gull ululates.
I lean into this old stone wall with its
sugaring of mica and its silvery trails
and my chest and throat spasm soundless in our unifying loss.

Then jackdaws, black against wallpaper cloud,
stratify into six pairs, giddy with love,
in tune with spring’s ever-renewing surge,
and I centre. Ground.