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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s