PASSERS

Chirpiest birds, the sparrows now

Are swinging on our backyard bough,

Their youthful poise a mite too sharp

For those of us who chide and carp

Yet, if they go – as seems unjust –

We’ll look in vain for shuffled dust.

Wake us again with forty whacks,

Dear denizens of chinks and cracks,

And cheer our tasks throughout the day

With sweet domestic roundelay!

Alasdair Aston

 

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