Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 27
There's a Thrush Singing in the Garden
by Heather Haigh
I'll sit and watch for you, Love, keep your favourite chair
warm. I put mealworms down, broken in half, the way you do
it. I topped up the sunflower seeds and put clean water in
the birdbath.
Oh, he's back and his breast is redder than ever. Maybe
he's blushing at how long he teased you, never quite daring
to come to your hand. He's eating from his favourite spot,
just a hop away from where you wanted him.
Your hand's shaking. Don't worry, I won't let go.
The daffs are open. I've sent our Jane to cut you a bunch,
told her to put them in your blue vase, the one that shows
them off best. See, I do listen.
When you're up to a bit more chat, I'm here.
I'll keep listening to the birds, till then. They're
eating more than you. Can you manage some soup? Just a
spoonful ...
'Course my soup's not as good as yours, and not a patch on
the bean soup we had in Tuscany. The Tower of Pisa, eh?
Much taller than we thought. The pictures don't do it
justice. They never do. I bet the Eiffel Tower is ...
You need some fresh air. I'll open the window. I'll only
let go for a second, My Love, just a second. Good to let
the breeze in. Can you smell the hyacinths?
That's a lovely shade of blue, but not as rich and deep as
the bluebells at Newmillerdam. From the first time we
walked there ... I can picture it now — you in a blush pink
dress, zigzagging between the flowers, torn between
enjoying the carpet at your feet and looking up to try and
catch a glimpse of the blue tits and goldfinches ... I
always wished I could have painted you. Wished I had your
skill. You'd have told me that the pink clashed with the
blue, but you'd have been mistaken.
Your hand's cold. Let me rub it, put some colour back. I
won't let go again, Love. Don't you listen to our Jane.
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