None so careless of winter's warning
As a starling-troupe on a warm mid-morning
Playing their sweet imperfect pipes,
Clicking inadequate castanets.
Keeping some old-time festival
Some artless musical free-for-all,
With stuttering solos and quaint quartets,
Crooning and clucking, they try and try
In vain for some note that soars too high.
In shimmering suits of metallic black
And blue, they sing till their voices crack.
And then, what happens? Just cluck and chatter
And happy gossip. What does it matter
After all, if noon still lies
Warm on the woodshed's weathered roof?
A sun-bright morning is still enough,
More than enough, in a starling's eyes.
First published in The Bulletin, 13 June 1956
