For years
you have hung upside down to steal my birdseed,
nibbled away at suspended coconuts,
arrived before the birds at any scraps,
dug up my newly planted bulbs
and stripped the crop from my walnut tree.
But today
I tidied my winter window boxes,
discarding matted whitened fibrous herbs
and straw-like nasturtium trails,
delving into the moisture-starved soil with my fingertips.
And laughed
to find you have buried one of my own walnuts,
here, under my nose, in the kitchen window box –
and it has sprouted.
There,
next to the parsley that survived the vicious frosts,
are two tiny rowing-boat hulls,
joined together at the lip,
a shrivelled brain between them,
sending up two inches of brave green flame
towards the light.
You have planted me a walnut tree.
