NORMAN MacCaig combines his usual acute observation with a touch of characteristic whimsy in this bird portrait from his superb posthumous volume of Poems, edited by his son Ewen and published by Polygon.

The piece is dated October 1972.

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.