Protecting the Buds

It was time.
We bound the young apple trees,
looping the fine black thread
from twig to angled twig.

A low grey day. Winter, half turning,
waited on spring toiling after.
The moist air doused thought,
the bullfinches sat in the thorn hedge, waiting.

We knew that the snare was only defence,
hardly more than an incantation—
that it left the trees webbed,
their downy grey buds still presenting.

With their black caps
and their armoured beaks,
the pillagers sat impassive.
Their beauty and their fierce intention.

A helplessness.
It was like watching children
their own bright, fatal thoughts
ranged round about them. .