Big and brash and loud - so loud !
All whooping, splashing, strutting proud,
And never just the one - but with a crowd !
Filling cities, wrecking peace -
Beware, my goslings, Canada-bred geese !
And yet, they’re clearly here to stay
Through wet and winter, come what may,
When many native birds have flown away.
They’re down to earth and on the rise,
Their flying-Vs patrolling cloudy skies.
The parents grub and labour much
While taking turns to mind their clutch,
And grazing grass that locals will not touch.
Gregarious by flock and gaggle,
Ganders dance the neck and lucies waggle.
They are our future, anyhow -
Americans, yet British now,
And British as a plum or Friesian cow.
Though black and brown of feather, true,
Their spirit sports the red, the white, and blue.
If you have any comments on this poem, Martin Choules would be
pleased to hear from you.