we’re outside The Apple Pie, sheltering.
A jackdaw hops on a table nearby,
twitching its hooded head, chit-chattering
urgent news. Fixing us with beaded eyes,
its charcoal plumage paints the rain-rod day.
You message Steve, his house still full of Kath.
Step-dad or Lydia? Who’s come to stay?
Someone’s there, we hope, to ease the aftermath.
Warmed by soup and pot of tea, we talk of Steve,
watch umbrellas wheel down the lacquered street.
read the Sunday papers, don’t want to leave.
In together fug, rooted to our seats,
just you and me with jackdaw recitative,
we are the blessed. We are the unbereaved.
