Lone Star Poem by Richard Whiting

A gentle chyme;
a woman mixes water-colours
for a sunset sketch
her table of bottles
lines up every possible
mood of sky,
texture of tree,
dab of bird.

The birder with Swarovski ‘scope;
a lens to tempt
horizon-hugging prey,
leans against a silver birch
eyes observing words
written into the sky
by cloud and dying solstice sun;
awaits his quarry

the tight black drum
of starlings rolling
across the red and yellow
of December's celluloid sky-
when suddenly their lime-light dims,
Penelope unpicks the winter,
and twenty voices point out
the lone star overhead

House Martin! they say
strangers all, but in unison;
Six days from Christmas
flying well and strong
as the artist's brush hangs
in dripping disbelief
and the Swarovski ‘scope
points at the earth, incredulous.

There was Black Friday
and Cyber Monday.
There were figures
of commerce alighting
on pages as if the season's madness
were a numerical pageant;
But this bird
defying the winter

living through and off the sky,
finding enough to survive
half a death sentence at least;
This is what we would remember.
The year a house martin
stayed until Christmas
and taught us what miracle
and riches really are.