4 NOVEMBER 1989, Page 27

Home Making

The weaver slings another cradle in the jacaranda tree, teasing from the thinnest grass and slivered leaves a shape that he always seen and instinct has stamped perfect.

Then cocks his head, dispraising an unkept coiffure of straw that won't come right.

Prissy stylist, fretful in rejection, he flaps and pulls and smooths and tucks.

The shape he's made is not the one she sees. She shrills, and flashes to another tree leaving his fourth nest of the year to fray wisps in the wind.

The weaver picks a leaf; the origami sounds of tear and twist bind our intentions. Crisp leaf folds, the sigh of fingers sliding creases in the onion skins of letters home. I screw my fourth attempt up in a ball, smooth a new leaf. Julian May