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