Thatching the Cottage
A poem
Atop the longhouse, water reed in hand,
rough fingers work their magic, laying
segment after segment like careful beaks
with yellow straw in spring nests.
I know every bundle starts to rot the second
base is touched, but who wouldn’t want
a chocolate-box cottage under a silver
moon or arc of saffron sun?
Fresh bundles, flower end up, clipped in
like my mother’s hair at the salon, but
then thumped into place, wait their turn
and the roof is dressed and trimmed, a perch
for lumbering crows and thatch pheasants.
Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved