Churchgoing was an integral part of my childhood: a weekly ordeal that I'm glad to have left behind with things like Santa Claus and the Tooth-Fairy.
One small consolation of these Sunday outings was the opportunity to observe my fellow attendees in all their sartorial elegance. The Italians have their Passeggiata: Presbyterians, in the days of my youth, showed off their finery at church on Sunday mornings.
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.
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