Feathered friends are all of a flutter

In they swoop and out they flutter, As a knife slips over butter. Nothing can suppress the utter Joy of being free. Landing on the peanut feeders, Pecking at the swinging seeders. Nowhere is there any need of Choreography.

They arrive in any weather, Quick of eye and fleet of feather. On their own, or all together. Come to take repast. Tasting what we care to give them. Tiny souls. Though we outlive them, We share magic moments with them. And we make them last.

Blue tits, great tits, long-tailed fluffies, Never have their airs or huffies, Even though there are some roughies Lurking in the pack. They dart swiftly in to nibble At the dry, compacted kibble. Hard, or soft, they make no quibble. They attack the tack.

Sometimes, on the ground below them,

Seeds fall as the wind will blow them, Robins scavenge. You will know them By their cheery chest. And fat pigeons watch the flurry. They are seldom in a hurry. Life is far too short to worry. Best to make the best.

On the nearby totem, Woody Sees them snaffling every goodie, Wonders if he really should be Entering the dance. They fly off as he advances, Swapping fleeting, tweeting glances. Everyone must take their chances Round his beaky lance.

Suddenly the guests are leaving. To the skies the hosts are heaving. Our dog Jack, who needs relieving, Scurries out the door. When he’s had enough of sniffing, Which he thinks is rather spiffing, They regather for the tiffin, As they did before.

It’s a lovely occupation, Watching the fine-feathered nation In their varied congregation, Feeding by our gate. Even though they sometimes squabble, And the table gives a wobble, It’s a treat to see them bobble At their dinner plate.

Every day we watch them feeding. And, although the world is bleeding, Affirmation is what’s needed. And they give in spades Such a show of blithe existence, In their unmistook persistence. They don’t stop, brook no resistance To their grand parade. Ruth twyman Lockyer, Yarmouth, Isle of Wight.