A Pastoral Scene

Though I know not their names
nor the colour of their wings,
I hear their songs
brighten up every morn —
trills and echoes
amid the trees.

The vegetable terace,
beloved of slugs and snails,
flush with runner beans and onions,
raspberries and blackcurrants
garlic in the greenhouse
blackberries behind the shed.

Cows in the field,
black and white choir of tenor voice,
glaring at the Usk Way walkers

traipsing up the track
as they listen to my poems
and keep an eye

on my father
trimming the hedge
from their side.