Mrs Mistle by Jo-Ann Hughes
Mrs Mistle,
I stood and made you freeze
from your carefree collection of red, ripe, rose-hips in your terra-tree.
Protected,
by a space, full of gnarled thorny branches
your stillness, my silence, perfectly watchful.
I wonder,
what you thought of me as I admired your song filled throat;
crinkled stripes of cream, pretty collar above mottled suit.
Captivated!
I could not move, but you skedaddled with a chatter
sounding like a maddened mutter.
For I had,
rudely
intruded.