Down the lane the jackdaws gather
in the apple trees.
They hang head down on the branches
gorging on rotting fruit soft as custard
bayonet beaks search out the sweetest.
They have no song these birds
but cackle amongst themselves.
In the next field a lonely horse
hangs his whiskered head.
So old, and always there, that over the years
the children have renamed the lane,
where they come to tempt him with sugar lumps
and windfalls from the orchard.
The jackdaws wait with infinite patience.
When he dies they’ll have his eyes.
Poet: Virginia Griem
Illustrated by Jon Munson II
This poem was Commended in The Poems Please Me Prize 2015
Virginia is a member of Moor Poets and Poetry Teignmouth. She is actively involved in the Teignmouth Poetry Festival. Virginia is also an artist and potter.
See other illustrations of this and all Winning and Commended poems in our eBook Red on Bone
