Mallards, widgeons, fill the sky

Each one calling out their cry,

“Wait for me,” and “Watch my space,”

Desperate to keep up the pace.

 

In the lee by stands of trees,

Sheltered swans it seems to please,

In a line of purest white,

Feeling safe, to their delight.

For the ducks, a numbers game,

Many of them look the same,

Feeling safe amid the crowd, 

They don’t mind if they are loud.

 

In this field of scraps they find

Food enough to feed their kind,

So much harvest overlooked,

Ducks don’t mind if it’s not cooked.

 

 

 

Look quite closely, you will see

Old potatoes – one, two, three,

If these spuds are not fermented,

Hungry ducks won’t get demented.