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Espresso


A minuscule bird
clinging to a twig

is shredding a loop
of knotted string

to a fibre-fuzzy
mist in its bill,

a haze as soft
as cotton wool

with which to line
a nest no bigger

than this small cup
I lift to my lips

while I wait for you
in this little coffee shop

on the avenue,
for such is April.


Colette Bryce

Selected Poems
Picador


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