She landed heavily on the lawn, yellow beaked

with bright red spot for a Pavlov response

in their tiny brood of ever hungry chicks,

grabs and fights and fusses over a few crumbs,

flapping noisily those strong wings, holding

her muscled body ready to fly off in an instant

should cat or dog or gardening human appear.


Now she readies her self, stamps her feet,

their webbed strength sounding like rain

to those wriggling worms who, on hearing,

tunnel their way up towards the pittering

and pattering, and raising their blind eyes

find themselves lost in the snapping sunny 

jaws of the ever hungry, diligent mother.


She heaves herself screaming off the ground

and cries and shouts her way over the rows

of roof tops until she’s home, hee-haws her

coo at her chimney, disgorges wriggling worms, 

into open beaks of her mottled family, 

squawking and batting each other, just to

tell her how their empty bellies grumble.


Hoisting herself back into the air, joins a 

fight over lunch scraps by an empty bench,

and keeping a weather eye on gardens she

takes to the air and her well fed chicks call

her back and back, always asking for more,

but together with her mate they endure,

until they are ungainly brown grown birds.


They struggle to get their last nested meal,

hastening over each other to clamber out, 

and then they flop onto branches and begin

to flap their strengthening wings until they

too flap and fly and scream with delight 

as the air flows over their growing bodies

and the skies open to their unfettered joy.


They scrapped and fought as they grew

They fussed and wailed and squabbled,

cried out their annoyance, hunger and 

from their persistent progeny they have

learned well their lessons and too from

hardworking parents, for now they flew

and wailed, scrabbling for kitchen scraps.


They screamed, chattered and fought

their way through the summer months,

snatched worms from the earth, pushed

and shoved but while brown they took

the second place in everything until, after

two long winters they were whitened.

Published by


margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.