There’s a goldfinch in the garden
half-inching the food that I left out for the birds;
how does he know that it’s his?
He doesn’t seem that bothered,
all ebulliently feathered,
a Hardy sort, and weathered,
stocking up for the season yet to come.
He’s not a Robin robbing,
or a Starling staring at me,
asking for another slice of seedcake;
he’s a goldfinch made of sturdy stuff,
that I actually think has eaten
until he’s finally had enough.
But, he’ll be back,
and soon,
for the Winter will be tough.
Graeme Sandford 