Lapwings

‘Go away! Go away!’ they shrilled,
clown–coloured wings
In anxious flurry
To lure us from their treasure.

We had already found it:
The one and only artefact
Their tribe can fashion,
Scooped out of earth,
A shallow bowl,
Perfectly rounded
As by potter's hands:
Lined with sallow grass
Pressed flat, crissed–crossed:
Within — a trinity of eggs
Khaki, matt–shelled, with inky blotches:
Blood–warm from their mother's breast.