NORMAN MacCaig tops acute observation with his usual individual flourish in this bird study. It comes from the splendid posthumous compendium, The Poems of Norman MacCaig, edited by his son Ewen (Polygon).

RINGED PLOVER BY A WATER’S EDGE

They sprint eight feet and –

stop. Like that. They

sprintayard (like that) and

stop.

They have no acceleration

and no brakes.

Top speed’s their only one.

They’re alive – put life

through a burning glass, they’re

its focus – but they share

the world of delicate clockwork.

In spasmodic

Indian file

they parallel the parallel ripples.

When they stop

they, suddenly,

are gravel.