The Lost Leaves
The trees are bare
where the leaves
have fallen
somewhere.
Not there.
Not here
where
the ground grieves
for all its lost leaves
as the dance goes on.
https://www.orenaugmountainpublishing.com/poetry-collections/celebration-of-trees
Jacko I saw him flapping around in the grass, one wing at an improbable angle. I chased him, caught him, wrapped him carefully in my cerise and navy school scarf. Jack, jack, jacko.. Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet who set the broken wing, wrapped it carefully in plaster, a heavy pot. He was subdued on the bus home, but still managed to greet my mother, Jack, jack, jacko. He perked up later after tea and explored the living room placing bits of straw artistically and decorating them with pooh. Which was why he had to live at school, home only for weekends. Jack, jack jacko! But he enjoyed bus journeys now and greeted all the passengers, hopping from shoulder to shoulder, waking them up with a wang from his pot, nibbling an ear here and a nostril there. Most were charmed, but some were not. He was close to becoming the only jackdaw to be banned from public transport. Jack, jack, jacko!! And then disaster! the wing ha...
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