by Paul Welbourn21 Jul 2013
Won’t someone tell them its 4am?
I’m woken again by the sound of them.
They perch on the wall waiting for him,
No care that the sun has not yet risen.
As time beats on, more birds are landing,
They crowd as though spectating a hanging.
The sun’s rise begins, and lights deep red,
Their feathers and heads illuminated.
This devilish hue befits my mood
As they babble whilst awaiting their food.
The mob is covered in blood-red dew
While they perform their military tattoo.
This squadron is becoming hungry,
As sky turns from coral to canary.
Not before time, my neighbour arrives,
And bribes them with food for a quiet life.
Upon spotting his scuttle of seed,
They silently stare and wait till he leaves.
Fat-balls hung up and seeds are thrown down,
Instead of growing these seeds he has sown.
The gang crowd down to the ground. They pick
And peck at every twig and every stick.
Two wood pigeons are having a feud
To conclude who should get to eat the food.
But all the while feathers are flying
A sparrow steals the crumb as its lying.
A black and white cat creeps in to kill
She moves in close, then perfectly still.
She waits and plans her moment to strike,
Springs up like a snake, mouth widened to bite.
Missing them all, her food flies away.
The buffet is closed; at least for today.