Birdhouse

On the side of an elm
A monk has built a
Birdhouse from an oak
That was once an open net
Above the tree to which it now stands
Nailed and rotting like graffiti
On a faded Egyptian tomb.

Two swallows sharpen their beaks
On a long piece of hemp
Climbing the rope in murderous
Pandemonium their long knives
Disappearing behind orange leaves
And burnt black bark.

Not a drop of blood has spilled
On the forest floor
Just bits of birdsong and leaves
Like eyelashes from brown
Feathered trees.