Fit’s fleein’ aboot far in October?

Pink-fitted geese, ye say?

Foo mony?

Forty thoosan’?

Awa’!

Far fae?

Greenland?

Michty!

 

Fit else is fleein’ aboot in October?

Dukes, ye say?

Nae forty thoosan’ ‘n’ a’?

Mair than a puckle tho’?

Fit’s ‘at ene wi’ the pinty tail?

A pintail?

An ‘at boorach wi’ the shovel moos?

Shovellers?

Weel, nae muckle imajinins ‘ere.

 

Fit’s at fleein’ aboot oot yonder?

Whooper swans, ye say?

Fae Iceland?

Tae Crimond?

Are they wise?

Ooh, a wee fechty!

“Bide awa’ fae ma wumman!”

Same the warld o’er.

 

Fit’s fleein’ aboot ahin ‘ere?

Tree sparraws, ye say?

Scarce, are they?

An’ ‘at wee crater forbye?

A merlin?

Bird o’ prey?

Mair like mait tae ene, I’d say.

 

So that’s fit’s fleein’ aboot far in October.

Ye wid hardly credit it -

a’ thon in oor wee neuk

fae oot ‘n’ aboot,

flockin’ tae oor dune loch.

Feel?

Nah!

Sound.

Susan Miller, November 2014; inspired by a visit to Strathbeg.

Whooper swans on the Loch, Brian Sandison

Anonymous