HOUSE of BIRDS
We bought our house from a gun happy Gypsy
Sad fellow who’d overstretched his Romany
But we still bore the scars with holes in the shutters
And not a bird in sight with no songs or flutters.
Oh so silently they began to return
The first was our owl as soft as a fern
We only heard from twilight into the night
Who would disappear again at dawn’s first light.
Then cuckoo in the spring would come each year
Invisibly usurping her cousins without fear!
With lullaby at night of the soft twit-twoo
And early morning wake up of a bright cuckoo!
All of a sudden the window sills were seen
Where many would come, sit in the sun and preen
But the presents of straw, sticks and grass quite fair
Just got too much for us to manage or bear.
When a song is heard don’t specify the singer
Don’t confuse the message with the messenger
Or you may miss the song in its clarity
Or the message in all of its purity.
The nests with feathers and a soft downy bed
Really couldn’t bear them so they went, sadly said.
Now they’re emboldened, hearing their flutter,
They’ll nest under tiles or the edge of a gutter.
Now that they’ve found where they really belong
From dawn early morning they sing us their song
So they know that the sills are now out of bounds
As they soar and they dive they orchestrate sounds.
Homemade Bird House with nesting box inside
Made from old timbers our house did provide
Loved by our flying friends back in England
Now ignored by birds in this foreign land.
But our home has become the house of the birds,
Their movement and colour and songs that are heard
Brings joy to our hearts, happy to reinforce
Our happiness has become a real Tour de Force!
© David Tenneson 2015.