winter visitors by Martha-Ann

Fieldfares, cousins of our native thrush,
Come homing in on a silent rush
Of wings, to settle in the hawthorne hedge
And gorge on berries plump and red.

The gauntlet of the gulls outrun
Exhausted birds are almost done.
Mid noisy, straggling, chuckling flocks
They swoop and wheel across the docks.

The Russian winter borne no more,
The long, long journey to our shore
Forgotten as with breath a-bating
They find the feast is laid and waiting.

Flights of hundreds can be seen
An age old part of our winter scene.