FLIGHT OF FANCY

After a week of war poems, here's something lighthearted, fanciful and, perhaps, a little surreal from that airy realm where birds, not bullets, fly.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

Like starlings in a close-knit flock,
they swoop then gather in the pews
before the vicar in his smock,
a rook-like man of sombre hues.
Then children cluster, sparrow-pert,
up in the front row, noisily.
The boys look bored while young girls flirt
and fluff their feathers quietly.
A magpie-person sits alone:
his elegant, eye-catching suit
draws comment from a starling clone.
From lakeside comes a nervous coot
and, hardly noticed, now a wren
flits in, her costume copper-bright.
She bows and chirps a soft amen,
her small head cocked, her tail upright.
A couple, blackbirds by their look,
respectively in black and brown,
receive a stern nod from the rook
as they arrive and settle down
then one plump robin, always late,
red-cheeked and jaunty, hurries in.
His redness serves to recreate
the blood of Christ that conquers sin.
A choir of larks begins to sing
the old, familiar, Hymnal words
and all join in, their voices ring
for they are full of joy, these birds
that, somehow, find a place to perch
in this strange aviary, the church.