Birdwatching

A serious game, this, with its coded rules.
As wolves hunt in packs and sharks in schools,
So birders gather in high-precision groups,
Kitted in Barbours and old army boots,

Hunched on windswept headlands, bitter coasts,
Spiky with tripods and telescopes,
Displaying their far-seeing tubes and pods,
Like high-tech altar ware, to sea-born gods.

Strong-jawed, posh-speaking, ex-Sandhurst types,
Purposefully striding up the dykes,
Boardroom bullies, private healthcare shrinks,
Anglican clergy, purple-veined with drink,

Pounce on a flick of rump, a mid-air jink,
Quicksilver flourish. Buggering Christ! I think,
A flock of golden plover! Focus quick!
A rush of wing beats, then soft raining shit.

They vanish in a gold and silver flash
Over the marsh. Our twitchers make a dash
In Gore-Tex gear and guano-spattered hats,
Raking brackish lagoons and fenland flats.

These confident, loud-voiced, long-vowelled toffs
Parade their arcane lore of reeves and ruffs,
Bitterns and bearded tits, ever compete
To classify what flies and has two feet.

The peregrine claims as right the pigeon's breath —
Link in the chain, cycle of life and death,
Dog eating dog. A necessary part
Of nature. No premeditated art.

Our human predators, safe in snug cars,
Drive back to manses, mansions, stag-hung bars.
Once armed with guns to shoot the common pheasant,
Now name not maim — just marginally more pleasant.