Diana Webb

Burns Night ( ye little birds)

Clad in his best white shirt and black-tailed dinner jacket, the busking violinist plays a Vivaldi accompaniment to the gathering wings of dozens of pied wagtails in a small town centre tree. It's raining a late January scotch mist. As his bow moves to and fro across the strings, the birds flit back and forth through gleaming twigs – shift, settle, shift, squeak, flit, squeak, whirr. The musician pauses, his recorded orchestra switched off. All the snow-feathered members of the avian ensemble poise high in the darkening blue backdrop. Concerto of the magic tree stands silver-grey, a stave with silent notes inscribed in filaments against the night.

almost bed time
a bright eyed child
looks up

morning
just a score of splodges
'departed joys'