Branwen To The Starling Poem by Giles Watson

It's lucky for me my husband has a taste
for starlings' eggs. It takes hundreds
of them, smothering a platter, to please
him at a feast, each hard-boiled, cooled
and peeled. I only needed to hide one
in my breast, and hope that it was fertile.

When you hatched, I hid you at the end
of my kneading-trough, dropped morsels
trimmed from my husband's prize-boar
into your questing yellow mouth, watched
the blackened quills erupt beneath
your skin. Your bill darkened, began

to lengthen. His butcher came each day
to box me about the ears, and with them
still ringing, I fed you bread, held you
to my warm, imprisoned heart, felt your own
pulse racing. Your plumage flecked up
into starnel-colours, bright as Orion.

It's time for you to know. I reared you
not entirely out of compassion, although
God knows I needed company, and you are
good at listening. Here. Nestle your bill
closer to my lips. I do love you. Let me
clip this message to your wings. Birds

can see magnetic fields, and when sight
fails them, use their instinct. There are
whole ambient worlds humans fail to notice:
they are too intent on treaties, betrayals. Take
this last kiss. Miss your mark: I'm imprisoned
always. Mind crows. Fear hawks. Bless you. Go.