Poem for the Day: Old Moleskins

Old Moleskins

This morning a bird flew up,

then another, higher than yachts at sea.

Here on the coast, on a priestly hill of

shrieking gulls, tea-trees, phones

noisy notes escaping from

picnic and park, I sit

watching the helpless young,

crowded nests, cormorants baking

on sculptured rock.

Some rise, others land.

Some haply wall together

like invited guests.

Thinly lined, this group

is nature’s posy —

black and white sunshine,

old moleskins.

And beyond the rock’s withered fare
after stretch and preen

they let the homeless in.