Congregation

by Ian McDonough

Standing in our back garden
among the sea-washed whisper
of a Thurso summer night,
we grew aware of starlings gathering
on rooftops, chimneys, aerials, rones,
First a dozen, then a hundred,
finally beyond two thousand
clustering on every elevated space.

They sat, for half an hour quietly gossiping.
And then – in slow unhurried dribs and drabs –
took off for God knows where,
leaving us neighbours
grounded, landlocked at our doors.