There’s just one, flockless and unshy, in a tree
on the industrial estate. The pale
supercilium. The tell-tale flash on the flank
like a splash of sustaining rowanberry.
It slipped south, tseeping unseen by night
through porous borders, down before the snow,
stirring images, or memories, of tundra,
unlikely vastnesses away and ago;
the wonder of someone, some me, to have witnessed
that ideal nest set low in stunted willow.
Redwing by Mark Totterdell received a special mention in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (August 2018) judged by Roger Elkin.