Mrs Mistle

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.