Long walks in the lanes near where we live during the lockdowns and afterwards opened my eyes and ears to the countryside. Spring was particularly noisy. Later on, our garden was briefly visited by a hopelessly lost racing pigeon. He moved on after a few days, but he left his blessing.
The Parliament of Fowls
Order! Order! Order!
cries the Great Tit
from the squeaky chair
but robin there
high on his filibuster
doesn’t hear
he has far too much to say
just then the corvids interject
with scoff and sarcasm
and chiffchaffs heckle
blurt their own names out
in exclamation
a chaffinch reels off
speeches by the score, composed
in perfect haiku
and the sparrows
have formed a faction talking
only to themselves.
For now the blackbirds
hold their tongues
to rustle in the hedge
sheaves of notes
stashed away
they’ve planned a speech
to silence all debate come summer
while high above
a buzzard translates
owl and dove
into the old vernacular
piw? piw?
Then wren pipes up too
pumped up chest,
plumped up coattails
having none of it.
It’s all too much. Again,
the self-appointed Speaker calls
Order! Order! Order!
from a rusty seesaw
far off and unseen
utterly ignored by each
and every honourable member
of the thickening green.
Early March 2021