Opening Time at the Bird Cafe (Poetry)

Dawn is long-since past and I am late.
In rows they sit on twig and wall and wait
and watch for signs — the curtains drawing back
that show of life. They stare intent and track

my movements as I open bags of seed
and closer creep like starving refugees
eager for the feast spread on the sill
impatient to swoop down and claim their fill.

I’ve hardly shut the window when the first
comes hurtling in — a whirling feather-burst
of bold cock robin stabbing with his beak
then blue tit tries his snatch ‘n’ grab technique.

Blackbirds next — both male and female share
the breakfast bar like any married pair
they bicker while the other birds look on —
the collared doves hold back until they’re gone.

A magpie swipes a helping on the hop
the sill’s so narrow he’s no room to stop.
A passing jay observing does the same.
The chaffinches more practised at the game

keep their balance — work their way along
with rhythmic pecking while wood pigeons throng —
anticipate a landing on the ledge
heads a-bob as down the roof they edge.

It’s busy — all the regulars flock in.
They push and shove — devoid of discipline —
first come first served is Nature’s simple way
and nothing’s wasted of the birds’s buffet.

At last the sill is bare — the crowd flown off
to other feeding grounds. There floats aloft
a feather shed like one lost flake of snow —
down payment in the only coin they know.