The morning after my grandad had gone

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Every morning, the woodpecker would perch

on the oak, hammering, rattling bark

until we heard it sloughing down the tree.

We would awake – dust in our eyes,

dew winking in the autumn grass. 

My sister would grimace at her wristwatch – left

unfastened, ticking, clicking on the windowsill.

One day, at dawn, we tip-toed down the spiral stairs

before shifting through the woods – 

scared of being caught by the sun.

We’d planned to trap it, catch it, latch

its beak; stop its rattling. 

We waited for the ticking in the trunk to pierce 

our ears – grass stains on our knees,

our hearts throbbing beneath the still branches.

The stars were in recess; my sister in such a 

hurry she’d forgotten her watch

when a hand clasped my shoulder,

a pair of eyes rounding on us. Don’t you know 

it’s a sin to kill such a thing?

November air nipped my elbows; my arms

brushing against the reeds, and only then did

we hear the tapping ricochet 

through the trees. Clouds like stray cats

wandered past, oak branches rustled slightly,

as though our breath had made them move.

We left the clearing where we found him,

pulled away, slowly, not turning our

backs as we did. He pecked and pecked; 

on and on; even after we had gone.