Babies learn so quickly, growing from unformed blob of glup to something that walks, talks and has its own opinions.
So few weeks ago it was spring and these birds were still eggs.
Between September visits, our small grandbaby has changed from being dog spectator, watchful and amused, to dog commander, dishing out treats from her plate, and expecting to be obeyed in all things. She follows them about, calling, but of course, they don’t understand their new baby names, and of course, baby gets furious when she has to shout twice, or ten times.
Scattering leaves with a swirl of red skirts summer leaves the stage.
By the end of the autumn, who knows how her wings will have grown. Perhaps Bee and Emon will have learned a new language too.
In the porch dog watches leaves bowling remembers the sun.
Bee (more commonly known as Bix) stealing the talking baby’s lunch.
Emon (Redmond) and Bee (Bix) early morning June, hence the green.
Last week’s prompt from Paul Brookes was the acrostic form. I’d never written an acrostic poem before so gave it a try. This is what I came up with. I assumed that any subject was acceptable.
The one on his own at the bar
Gabble drips from your loose lips, Offering opinions no one wants to hear. Behind your effusions and hearty back-slaps, Silence, as women roll eyes and sip their drinks. Hands you try to shake, raise to catch the barman’s attention Instead, backs turn, hoping you’ll go away. There is a world of misogyny and arrogance in your Eyes, that fondle what you will never have.
I have been writing Badgers, to get iambic pentameter out of my head. The Oracle gave me some relevant ones with this word selection. Reminder, for those who would like to try some, a Badger’s hexastitch is a six line, syllable-based poem, following a 2/4/6/6/4/2 pattern.
Badgers without badgers
I see cats stalk the field, conspicuous, white-furred, yet their prey see only a deeper shade, death-winged.
Outside supermarket doors, the homeless with their dogs sit, the begging cup obstinately empty.
They have so much, the rich, they walk in glitter-clouds, not urbane or humane, the word is crass, vulgar.
The child with the snotty nose and dirt-patined skin cries, but feet hurry past, eyes always look away.
Brothers watch the field’s edge, dogs, intrigued but wary, unsure if a wild pig is friendly prey or foe.
and when, within the dog rose hipped and barbed, the robin, winter king, in russet garbed, clicks his tongue to summon to his side bright-painted finch wings, redstart-bobbing tails, we know that autumn’s come, it rides the tide, with flame-red sails unfurled to catch the gales.