Маме сегодня исполнилось бы 73.

I grew up in a wood.

Well, no. I slept in bed

but spent my days by blackbirds. Rooks

cawed in my head.

I found the thrush’s nest,

her cup of warm-pressed mud.

The beech trees straining to their light

sighed in my blood.

We never owned that place,

I moved at eight. And so

in town gardens, in narrow space,

I watched trees grow

where sparrows shrilled, but neighbours

fretted for light or drains.

Now, many blackbirds later,

I find wide woods again

which few of us can grow,

which no one truly owns,

new pine tips which flash red, long paths

dry as our bones.

The children storm high walls,

the broadest ground they know

beyond tall timbers, bird or fox,

our woods, where people grow. ©