(in memory of Thomas Bewick, wood engraver)
The starlings en masse
roost here now.
They blend with the dark trees
in the twilight
by Bewick's shadowy workshop.
Under the Cathedral spire,
they shriek and gossip
in the chill;
chit-chat of more weather.
I think that Thomas
you could speak to birds,
knew them as you drew their words
in woodblocks.
You coaxed them from their very eggs,
uncaged them -
let them sing on the page.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
