POEM - THE LOVERS OF BIRDS

When I was a boy in Gloucestershire my overwhelming passion was for birds' eggs. Every boy I knew collected birds eggs. At that time the Law did not consider this youthful obsession to be a sin; indeed it was just something that boys did and it kept them out of trouble. There were rules, however: our rules. Passed from boy to boy and transcended on pain of excommunication. First rule: when a nest was discovered its location was secret to you, the finder. Even a severe Chinese burn wouldn't make you reveal it. Second rule: never take more than one egg. And you cherished your find, you blew it with such care and such love and you glowed over it when you took your last look before putting out the bedroom light.

THE LOVERS OF BIRDS

 

The egg is shewn, cupped in my hands,

Pricked and blown and emptied with care.

What is it? Tell me, what kind of bird?

A sparrow? a skylark? a coot? or a thrush?

A blackbird? a starling? - now they're hard to find.

Not a bluetit, nor robin - a chaffinch it is.

 No child's palette could capture the colour

No new fountain pen the calligraphy.

Admire and envy my lone chaffinch egg!

Only one to be taken, just one and for me, 

And where is the nest? Where? Tell me where! 

Tell me and I'll take my one, only one. 

No, that secret place I will keep to myself 

And you go and search for your own chaffinch nest. 

And there take your one, your one only one. 

The tythe which you as a child may take 

And don't break the code of the lovers of birds.