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Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Listen as the Starlings break
my somber thoughts with
so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take

outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping

utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill

the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff
I carry Aberystwyth
in the threads of my coat,
in the scuffs on my boots;
the sea salt, sand swept
into the fibres.

And now I stand here
in Jardin du Luxembourg,
thinking about the bench
by the well,

I sat on looking out to sea,
watching the starlings dance,
while considering the possibility
of perhaps, one-day, maybe
living in Paris.
Written March 2017.
The snow,
And turns;
Shapes in the air.
A floating, flowing, fluidity;
Such substance in something
   So diaphanous.
           A performance,
          Just as magical as
     The starlings
They had watched
At dusk
By the pier.

         And gliding
     The birds
  Danced in the darkening sky.
  That erratic black cloud;
  Morphing, flowing, conjuring...
        Forming new dimensions
          While the glowing sun
               Balances precariously,
                   Poised on the edge of the world
                                                              And then
                                                                         Into the sea,
                                                                        Leaving pink
                                                                     Goodbye kisses
                                                                       On the clouds.
Two figures are
Stood by the window,
Looking out and
  The crystal dust drift
   Within the flow of the wind.
      A giant ghost's display of ballet;
         Spinning, twisting, turning...
                                  Leaning on each other
                                In silence,
                                In the darkness,
                               The skies' cold ashes
                             In the night,
                       Under the rays of the artificial
                    Street light

Soon the train will leave the station,
Get further and further away...
Settling in the west for longer than a day.
Swallowed by the horizon.
Physics in the way.
                                                          She will freeze her face
                                                          And wave,
                                                          Borrowing a stoic's smile,
                                                          Safely held together,
                                                           Until within the veil
                                                           Of the warm taxi home,
                                                            Her eyes
Started early 2013 - mid 2014 ish
Jill D Barker Apr 2016
Coiled, grey March –snow patches slow to disperse on the townscape -
trying to turn the year.
A grey plume drifts through the low sky, like smoke but not smoke,
slow to disperse
reforming and palping like a long streak of foam on the sea; a grubby bag
turning, plastic and drifting
dividing in the sky: a shifting exclamation mark pulls out of shape
turns pale to vanishing, is gone.  
A sound like pages riffling, like a thousand paper fans rustling, a darkening in the air
turning in the low light all together
wheeling , breaking, re-combining, stretching again.  Sky geometry.
Still that dry whisper-clustering
of many wings holding close formation, turning and swooping together.
The cloud is back, is gone, is back again – endlessly
The grey light feels unnaturally late
above the Eagle Rec
starlings are moulding shapes, most beautiful murmuration.
The complex maths of defence – stay close, stay close –
turn, wheel, stay close.
Against the pale dusk the moment stretches beyond bearing,
that high, remote plasticity floats on as the light hesitates
dragging out the turn towards darkness.
The hawk must be near, striking into the crowd -
spin, turn on a wing-tip, wheel close, divide and turn: with luck
she will take your neighbour.
The black bunched crowd drops as one, to roost, to rest.
April Child Dec 2015
Each time i allow
my mind to drift in
retrospect, regrets
gather like starlings
in the dusk sky.
Memories tainted rose
take their own shape
and imagination
runs amok leaving
wagging fingers
in its wake.

— The End —