He chewed last year's mistletoe into pastethen, rolling it at length between his hands,
turned it to birdlime in long sticky strands.
He coated the wind strummed telephone wires
to catch the thieving swallows and martins
as they preened and readied for departing.
They were stuck there, like so many crotchets
on a sky-hung stave, twittering in vain
a woeful blues of frustration and pain.
Still the daylight hours grew shorter and cold.
Leaves fell as usual and Winter blew in.
The birds soon died from thirst and weathering.
If he could catch them all Summer would stay.
Birds, like passions, fly unexpected ways.
First published in Avis Magazine Spring 2016