On a grey rainy day
a cuckoo comes
to a tree at my window.
At irregular intervals
it hammers among the fat drops
falling onto the flat tin roof.
Uncurling the sleeping cat from my lap
I walk out into the misty sky
to try and find the feathered form.
Given a choice
I would live forever in a day like this:
wet, grey, visited by birds
singing their intricate songs.
I would read stories of bicycle rides
and embroider the thoughts of a honey bee.
It takes me days
to wash off the nagging world,
rinsing and rinsing until
finally I find my own skin.
Though I just can’t seem to find
that bird that is hammering.