A bird spotter extraordinaire:
Oystercatchers here, tree sparrows there.
Starlings busy on the bank,
wagtail chicks with you to thank;
all that banging at the windows
saved those eggs from hungry crows.
Your bird book is dog-eared and worn,
taped up neatly where it got torn.
Some nights I pry it from you,
fast asleep envisioning curlews,
great tits and grebes, grey herons and rooks.
Winged creatures of gardens and woods,
farmland, upland, bogland, and waters.
Just the right dreams for five and three quarters.
(This is an ode to my little 5.75-year-old, Sadie, who is fascinated by birds. She has her own bird spotter book but has now graduated to two books I have had for years. She knows every bird in those books and watches out like a hawk for birds wherever we are. On a recent trip to Dublin, I saw what I thought was a cormorant and pointed it out to Sadie, who replied, "no, that's a shag."
I recently wrote Four And A Half about my other daughter, Holly.)
