ROOK

It seems to me the wind
is your friend:
soaring, tumbling,
playing with the thermals
on a still day.

Tacking, swooping,
cutting along the hedge-top,
manipulating
the gale.

Chattering, flying high,
sailing home
on a light breeze.

Building your stick nest
high in the bare branches
for it to rock and rattle
round the rookery.

You joyful bird with your
black, lustrous plumage
and your crusty beak that
stabs the ground
for leather-jackets.

You can
fill the sky with movement,
write a tune on the wires,
blacken a field with your parliament,
and fill my heart with joy as you
surge past my window in your thousands
at dawn
on a cold Winter's morning.