A blackbird took my lock of hair
It was meant for someone else—
I had left it wrapped upon the stair
While I fetched a golden thread
Cheeky in and quickly out—
Now it nests with spotted eggs
A better use than my poor keepsake
It praises Summer there—
Thought I saw Les Murray in my rear vision mirror
walking with a black dog where the footpath isn’t clear.
Had like a simile in one hand but no lead gripped in the other:
puppy was or wasn’t his, it would appear.
Sun was shining on his temple and crows were sighing by the tracks
I got on to Preston Market in my café latte dacks
where railway bells are ringing and golden hocks are hanging
and Les is up ahead already singing.
