Yesterday I said, ‘Look! There’s a parakeet!’ and you said,
‘No, that’s a pigeon;’
and I said, ‘Look, there’s a parakeet!’
and you said, ‘No, that’s a duck.’

It seems stupid now.

You said, ‘This is a ratty bit,’
and there he was, big and fat.
Afterwards we saw squirrels shagging up a tree,
a pinewood.

It’s difficult to write when you’re in love.

First things first.
You told me there were crayfish in the Serpentine.

Secondly, you pointed out that the willows weeping into Long Water
looked like giant shaggy dogs stooping to drink.

That wasn’t it.

Fishing with my brother’s old rod in Killykeen, your line
snagged on a fist of freshwater mussels.

Now I’m worried you won’t believe this:
that same weekend I saw my first double rainbow,
my first red squirrel, my first lunar eclipse.

We’ve watched the coots—from six down to two now—grow big,
a new nest of crisp packets and lollipop sticks.
We’ve stalked muntjac in the woods.

And last night
a tawny owl ghosted through the park at dusk.