Oh little army of starlings,
you flap so eloquently,
as though you aren't real.
Nature at its gentlest.
Nature at its greatest.
Orchestrated so tactically,
a tight formation of gladiators
darting from the heavens
into our lives.
In the dimly-lit,
wintry witching hour
you show no hesitation,
floating wistfully with the wind.
I chase you up the pier,
until you disappear,
from the peach sky into the waves.
Though I still hear your singing.
The signs forbid jumping.
Diving is ruled out too.
Were you lured by the sweet smells
of doughnuts and crepes?
Then deterred by the bright lights,
slot machines and football shirts?
Me too.
But we can make it here.
Don't abandon us for
warmer climes just yet.
You look too delicate.
You might not make the flight.
No comments:
Post a Comment