Surprised by the sound of a cuckoo
Out on the Waskerley Way
I contemplated
Why the call of this parasitic bird
Engendered so much joy
Within me.

Could it be the recollection of much earlier walks
In calmer times
Along the Cromford Canal
Where the smell of wild garlic
And an invisible cow
Cured me of hiccups?

We always heard them back then
Heralding the arrival of spring
Playing the game of who would hear
That year’s first one
Whilst they lived lives on the wing
In favour of thievery and death

But as I pause
Hoping to hear that sound again
Joy is tinged with melancholia
Not for the meadow pipits
Dunnocks
Or reed warblers
Whose nests they requestion
But with the fear
Of how spring would become so diminished
Living in a world
Where I could never hear the call
Of those angels of knavery again

Copyright ashyvicar July 2025