BIRDWATCHING

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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