A flock of sparrows along the Long Dalmahoy Road this morning - must have been 50 - 60 of them - wonderful
He’s no artist.
His taste in clothes is more
dowdy that gaudy.
And his nest – that blackbird, writing
pretty scrolls on the air with the gold nib of his beak,
would call it a slum.
To stalk solitary on lawns,
to sing solitary in midnight trees,
to glide solitary over gray Atlantics –
not for him: he’s rather
a punch-up in a gutter.
He carries what learning he has
lightly – it is, in fact, based only
on the usefulness whose result
is survival. A proletarian bird.
No scholar.
But when winter soft-shoes in
and these other birds –
ballet dancers, musicians, architects –
die in the snow
And freeze to branches,
watch him happily flying
on the O-levels and A-levels
of the air.
Norman MacCaig