The Bird Club
Gawky, spindly youths on the cusp of manhood, insecurity rife
Could have gone either way — fight! fight! fight! — baying for blood
Chanting in the playground, no shortage of takers, crowds gathered
Blood spats, broken noses, and never a good outcome
Mr. Few, the Geography teacher, took Ornithology classes after school
He tried to tempt them in; the wayward boys, the no-hopers, the loafers
With promises of field trips and a free badge to sport on their Crombie coats
As if that would lure them in; a field trip — maybe but a badge. No way.
Binoculars nick-named ‘bins’ and educational pamphlets crumpled in disrespect
The core of the class keen and interested in birds wore their binoculars with pride
Pencils sharpened and notebooks at the ready, they were a pleasure to teach
Even the boys at the back quietened, intrigued, happy to be doing something different
The bird table near the fountain at the main entrance to the school building
Was where they gathered at a distance on school benches, hushed by Mr. Few
A tiny Goldfinch skittered to the feeder clinging to the side, pecking the seeds
It’s blood-red cap and bright yellow go-faster stripes on its wings pretty and alluring
Urban landscapes in the concrete jungle of the new-town where the school was built
Offered little scope for wildlife to flourish, save for handkerchief-sized gardens
Attached to rows and rows…
