Finch Conference

Known as a charm, the bunch of goldfinches,
Polished so prettily from head to heels,
Do girl-group step routines like the Ronettes.
You would not be astonished if Phil Spector
Showed up by limo to collect the money.

The chaffinch arrives solo like Karsavina
On the first night of The Firebird in Paris,
When no one credited her speed on stage.
If she would just stay still, that russet bodice
Would look like satin dyed and draped by Bakst.

After her triumph, in the dressing room,
The new star, sitting down to darn her tights,
Was told that from now on she didn’t have to.
“It was then,” she wrote later in her memoirs,
“That I realised I was Karsavina.”

It’s getting late. The garden has gone quiet.
The conference of the finches is dismissed.
Time to go in and rest from too much watching
How time, like fame, flies on such fleeting wings.
No birds were hurt in the making of this poem.