BIRDS In the round tree hole the little owl sings sharp as a penknife in the grass the mouse runs away screaming inside his skin. Jenny Sysum In the drizzly park littered with paper and milk-bottle tops the rusty swings are squeaking The leaves on the trees are whistling in the wind the bark is crinkled mossy and green The bird pokes his silken head out of a hole in a tree he sings a little song to himself. The noise he makes is a ringing sound in the rundown rainy grey playground. Brenda Tonnessen I am as old as the hill and the sea below. The silver fish I kill As plunging down I go I take a bird's eye view of this world of mine. The sky above all blue And a vast expanse of brine. Julie Mooney Under the water the shadfows do what you do, trees wave about in the mud, the weeds shoot into the sunken sky. A teal dabbles along, thinking there is another teal beneath him. Tracy Friar Here come the shadows of the gulls shaking and waving on the water I hate those birds waiting to feed on us, that unmistakeable shill voice. They swoop down to the waves foraging for food above the raging surf and take a dive at us fish: I hope they don't get me. Neil O'Brian Goldfinch An old Ford lies in the moorland A mass of dead American metal: In the glove compartment three chicks sit. A flutter of wings and their parents are back They mouths are filled with thistle seeds. Sam Dean I make a hole in my chip bag as I walk down the street and pull out my chips like a swift catching insects as it flies Linda Roscoe The wind sweeps across the desolate mudflats and the rain cuts little channels in the mud. The beach is very bare, not a thing in sight only the faint glimmer of light from a lighthouse far down the coast and the oystercatchers brawling on the waves. Paul Callan The fieldmice run to their homes The harvesters cut down the corn Blackberries and blossoms are in the hedges The kestrel hangs in the sunny sky Horrid beak, staring eye. Sam Darby