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The finches on the feeder spread the food,
As rich folk would, husks showering their lessers,
While they gorge on kernels from the seeds.
In the scheme where I grew up
I never saw a Greenfinch or Goldfinch’s finery,
Just dull sparrows scrapping for abandoned bread.
Now I feast on the colours of the Bullfinch,
Flamboyant pink, as he stuffs his face,
While the nervous Dunnock picks at what he can,
Underneath, and then a streak of brown,
A sparrowhawk, silent, sleekit, savage,
Flashes down and the Dunnock’s gone.
