You Can Fly

You Can Fly

I wake slowly before the world stirs,
in this wooden bed beneath the eaves,
wrapped in quilted covers, my arms
folded like the sparrows that nestle
in the ivy-clad masonry wall.

My stiff limbs crave a gentle racking, to counter
an ever-advancing stiffness. I flex these
ankles in a deliberate milimetric
descent till my feet poke out. The sweet
release of loosened joints flattens
me with spacious ease and quiet.

Sudden rumblings dispel the house's hush,
a rhythm of landings, of scuffling claws
edging along the ridge of the mossy roof.
The aerial thrums and quivers, a
crow's-nest lookout on the world below.

Bowling roundy pebbles down the slope,
hammering snails against the slates,
all slither into the greeny gutters to be
shlucked down with a drink of muddy rainwater
at this first stopover of the day.

A hidden signal, tumultuous cawing and scrabbling.
My bedroom window fills with a flurry of black
wings spanning and pulling the air in takeoff.
Impulsively, I swoop downstairs my
dressing gown flapping behind me.