We often see starlings flying in a
great flock,
swirling in evening sky before plunging earthwards
to their roosts, at this time of year,
when there isn’t much to cheer;
yet when I sat by the quayside at a
Scarborough dock,
One suddenly flew down, alighting on a nest of lobster pots.
It sat there preening and picking
about, not in the least shy,
completely untroubled by my
presence and others walking by
looking across the harbour at fishing
boats and yachts.
As if to prove whan an individualistic
character it could be
it proceeded to run through its
reportoire of birdsong mimicry;
great tit, chaffinch, green
woodpecked and curlew,
amusing itself and thoroughly
entertaining the lucky few.
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Have just been given this poem, but don’t know who wrote it. I think it’s lovely.