The Long-Tailed Tit
BY PÁDRAIG Ó TUAMA
He picks fleece from wire,
fluff from dryers, bog cotton, moss
and hair. Silk from webs, flax
from spiders’ eggs, packs it all with lichen.
She plucks feathers from the corpses
of the wren, the siskin,
blue tit, coal tit, goldcrest.
Adds her own feathers too.
She takes tickets, tissues, scraps
from the pockets of passersby.
That child who dropped a ribbon
will never find it.
Thousands of these things,
carried in a tiny beak,
or clutch of claws. It takes weeks.
They take turns to keep watch
on their soft sock of bricolage,
camouflaged at the fork.
They work in pairs, hawking
the walls smooth with their long tails
to keep their dull eggs safe.
They’ll stay two weeks, or three.
Uncles feed the chicks
when the parents are away.
They stay warm in winter
huddled in a volery of brown and pink.
Then in spring, call to each other
as they move from tree to tree.
Tsee-tsee they sing, tsee-tsee.
