Sitting in my back garden in the sun,
Annoyed by stupid wasps,
I hear the squawk of the parakeet respond to the whine of a police car driving past.
I look up to see the foreigners flying in formation in the direction of the mosque in Morden.
Their green may not be discreet against the red of the robin’s breast,
Nor their frantic flapping against the languid glide of the gull or the arced dives of the swift,
But I smile,
Because I realise that they fill my eyes with as much awe as the older occupants of English skies;
As far as I can tell,
Those bloody foreigners do the job just as bloody well.