Friday, 26 September 2008
Behold the joyous flock, that whirls and whorls,
The chattering host of starlings, that flag
And gather in the crimson veil of dusk.
Rising, falling, then ascending higher still,
Shuddering and fluttering with unfettered delight.
Their gentle wings flatter the wind, as molten
They pour to earth, cascading in a dark torrent,
Then like smoke they rise and drift, swiftly ascending.
Mercurial and protean, the murmuration
Constant changing, a river running,
A myriad shards awhirl as one upon an uplift,
Then sudden plunging as a cataract.
As petals in the wind they scatter, screeching
And cheeping as a feathered flood, spiralling
Wending and winding away, then swift returning,
Marrying the moment as a divinity.
Magical in both vision and imagination,
Blessed by Branwen, they bring redemption,
Serenading the evening star now arising,
The wave of their wing beats finally break,
Splintering upon the last red velvet ray of light,
That famished fades in the waning west.
Then the flock descends, aleatory yet in union,
Weaving away from where a falcon may await,
To roost in whispers where the woods begin.