Long had the last currants fluttered to the earth,
Raspberries and blueberries melted in the frost,
Splitted logs were waiting on the hearth,
The first mitten already had been lost,
But the red rowan berries still hung waiting
For the rustling and the fluttering
For the shuddering and the clustering
The sudden mustering of red wings.
One hundred wings and fifty carmine coats
Twenty minutes’ allotment for their grand attack
Stuffing rowan berries down their scarlet throats
Straightaway they’re gone, next year they’ll be back.