Sitting in the garden
this evening
nursing a glass
what do I see
but our local red kite
working on a new tactic
for picking up
the odd baby rook.
What it is doing
is moving around
so as to come at the rookery
out of the eye of the sun,
zoom!
pow!
zap!
and off into the sunset
with a talonful of supper.
The rooks, however,
were not born yesterday,
(the intended victims apart),
and in less time
than it takes to tell
I hear the rookish for
'Scramble, chaps,
enemy kite approaching
angels 200, due west',
and a squadron of black spitfires
roars into the sky.
Five minutes later
refilling my glass,
I swear I hear the rookish for
'Never
in the history
of corvine conflict . . . '
