Wagtails

I see a pair of wagtails
silver        and black
heads and tails bobbing
running           darting
dancing
on the patio

in a sudden breath of November
you are behind me
your tweed jacket rough
under my young fingers
that faint smell of tobacco

and the room
silver tray on the wall
      50 years of practice
oak sideboard        solid
crammed tableware papers
black and white photos
jostling
spilling
out of the doors

we are all there

laughing

Wee Mister Wagtail hopping on a rock,
Daddy says your pretty tail is like a goblin’s clock.