It’s quiet on the windowsill
where morning softly breaks,
when all at once a raucous trill:
the sleeper, jangled, wakes
to sparrows brashly arguing
at volume hardly civil.
Now, what complaint do sparrows bring?
Calamity or drivel?
It doesn’t matter which, because
all hope is lost for sleeping;
from now on there’s no hint of pause
in their infernal cheeping.
The hapless sleeper raps the glass
with the spine of last night’s reading
but the magic moment’s gone, alas,
and the balm of sleep’s receding.
So, up she gets for another peek
at the shameless mischief-makers
perched in the street-tree, cheek to cheek –
the rotten little fakers!