Canvassing Poem by Richard Whiting

He stood at my door
with clipboard and oversized rosette.

Ah, he said, Mr Whitting

Whiting I corrected, one “T”

Don’t mind if I do, he replied
pushing his way into my kitchen
his eyes sweeping walls and bookshelves
like search-lights

I see you’re a twitcher Mr Whitting

Whi…no I’m an observer, I don’t tick

Hm, birds are great Mr Whitting,
nothing I like better,
but those Swallows and Warblers…

they come here,
eating our insects,
building nests on our houses,
taking benefits from our eco-system
and don’t get me started
on the Cuckoo Mr Whitting,
don’t get me started!

I suggested to him
that these birds lived fascinating, dangerous lives,
their song adding depth and vibrancy
to the dawn chorus,
but he’d moved on;

The Starling Mr Whitting…
that’s a fine British bird

Ah Yes I replied,
the way they flock in winter,
wheeling around the sky
like iron-filings drawn to a magnet.

Yes, yes you’re right, he said
you wonder where they all come from!

Well some of them are local I returned
some are from Scandinavia
and some from Eastern Europe,
but you can’t tell which is which
by looking at their plumage

at which point he turned on his heels,
put down his barely touched tea
and headed for the garden gate
looking, perhaps,
a little greener than before,
but then not nearly
Green enough.