They ride the perishing, February winds

dozens soaring silhouetted against towering grey thunderheads

They circle above the ploughed hillside, with a relentless racket

Day after day, from the darkest dawn to the sudden nightfall

Dropping on to high, exposed perches, on the naked winter treetops

 A hundred times a day, maybe two hundred

Hardly pausing before flapping, fighting,

and restlessly launching again – first two, then six, ten, forty take flight

Squabbling and shouting over each other

Following the latest leader, pushing and shoving in the ranks

And kicking each other up the arse..

If Rooks were people, they’d be teenagers;

Noisy, then sullen

Anti Socially loud, then moody

Unreliable, except to be noisy and clumsy. All the time.

And boisterous to the point of exhaustion.

If Rooks were teenagers, they’d be Danny Zuko in Grease;

All bravado and turn ups,

Bullshit and bragging rights

Drive-In movies and plastic combs

In charge

All swagger

And self-doubt

They’d be Danny’s gang - the T Birds;

clambering all over that Greased Lightning car

Juvenile. Pushing and shoving

Sneering and snorting at each other’s pitfalls and pratfalls

Hot rods and paint jobs

Jumping in and out of convertibles with bench seats, no use for doors

And the only girls would be Rizzos;

brave enough, or stupid enough, to ride along

But if our Rooks were noisy teenagers

they’d be more dangerous, more unpredictable

They’d be James Dean. Travolta would run a mile

James Dean - all white Ts and turned up collars

Brooding petulance and pent-up anger

Delinquents running from the cops

One snappy remark away from a fist fight

Stolen cars and motorbikes

But now, if Rooks rode motorbikes? Well, they’d be Marlon Brando

He’d eat that pair for dinner

They’d be outlaw bikers in black leathers

Oversized jaunty caps

and matchsticks rolled in growling mouths

They’d be drunken troublemakers racing into town

Deafening tailpipes and huge headlights

Heavy boots and switch knives

Broken glass and brazen stares

‘What are you rebelling against?’ I yell up at the sky

‘Whaddya got?’ they all shout back

But wait, our Rooks patrol British fields, fight over English woods

So, they’d be Rockers, riding jet black Norton Commandos

Grifters and grafters with greasy hands

Worshipping Cochran, and Vincent

Hunched over jukeboxes at milk bars with steamed up windows

All leather jackets and silk scarves

sideburns and Woodbines

Less boisterous, more rock n roll, but still as dangerous

They’d be the café racers, Sunday morning hangovers

They’d be the young Ray Winstone

menacingly straddling his BSA Goldstar

Roaring down to Brighton on a Bank Holiday weekend

to drink and smoke on the edge of dancefloors

and to kick some heads in. Just for kicks

Cocksure. Living on wits

Spreading moral panic, laughing it off,

and riding straight through the Municipal Flower Gardens

If Rooks were people, they’d be gangs of teenage hoodlums

Fighting for territory. Fighting for status

But if Rooks were teenagers, they’d grow up, surely?

They’d mature, they’d mellow

They’d settle down

Trade in the silver machine for a Silver Cross pram?

But not my Rooks

Each morning they’re still there

Up and out well before me, circling the moody skies high above

Shouting and shoving

Elbowing each other for their rightful place on the wing, near the front

Kicking rivals off the best perches, muscling in

And never settling, ever

Always taking off after new leaders, new directions

And then back again, to start again

Black goggles and grimaces

Roaring across the rainy skies on their Triumph Thunderbirds..