Wetlands Poem by Neil Crawford

A day out for distraction to fill a diary page
(the middle classes must keep occupied
in this age of financial collapse) .

Two boys escorted to the bird sanctuary
to maintain their education
in the drawn out holidays.

Little prepared us for the sight we faced,
a plethora of birds that brought
Hitchcock to my mind.

The chattering, cawing, clucking brood
the sad, the comic, the stir crazy antics
of the open prison yard.

We pace gingerly among them,
tracing a path through the living stream,
adults seeking a cafe, children chucking seeds.

Literally bitten, the hands that feed
also wave in self defence
against the avian horde.

I have lived near birds all my life,
the gormless hen, the supervising robin,
the crafty crow and the highway hawk.

These here have had their feathers clipped
to prevent inevitable escape, I shake my head
in pity as a shadow hits my face.

Only feet above us, backlit by the sun,
unpinnioned wings against the sky, I see,
for the first time, the full flight of an airborne swan.

Heading for her freedom beyond the lake's lip
and the bustling crowds, a freedom she preserves
in the lilac Cambrian hills.