Sunday, 29 November 2009
A Mitcham Cabbage
This morning, as I walked through the park, cold rain was spattering down from a sodden sky. A cheerless prospect, from which even the usual standing army of crows (one of which I came across yesterday feasting with relish on a dead grey 'squirrel') had retired. I paused where the yew trees had formed a natural arch over the path, and became aware of a thin busy twittering sound all around me - a foraging party of tits, I guessed. But no - I soon realised that I was surrounded by goldcrests, some of them so low down in the branches that I could have reached out and touched them. These beady-eyed little birds - and they are truly tiny - seem to have little fear; perhaps being in company emboldens them. This party - there must have been a couple of dozen, probably more - was soon on its merry way (that chatty twittering sounds very much like a Synonym For Joy), but it had stayed long enough to lift my rainy heart. It had been, indeed, a gift from nowhere - a Mitcham Cabbage.