The Touch of Birds

I wrote this poem several years ago on a walking holiday in the Cotswolds. I’ve written more poems about birds than any other subject. I love their fleet nature, their ability to soar the skies, then disappear in a tangle of thorns.

The Touch of Birds

At the crest of the hill,
a wall-stitched woodland fringe;
beneath, the white heads of two dozen gulls,
iconic on the broken soil.
Waiting for the tractor,
groaning up the hill.

It comes, with its blunt, hefty blades
turning up the clay, revealing
a juicy crop of worms.

The birds feast, then lift
across the buzzing forest green –
drift apart, and join –
go with them

because you can –

go –

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