This is the next collection. Coming soon.
This is the next collection. Coming soon.
bird background babble
calm of the countryside
jays bob amid the mown stalks
the strident chords of the feathered chase
frantic flutter of blackbird wings
the distress of parents
the same in any language.
on the telephone wire
the kestrel’s perch
a blackbird sings
suspended above hedge and nest
oblivious to property rights
morning music swells
the oriole section in the poplars
thrush and blackbird centre oaks
and on the right
waking to sunlight
pale as moonlight
silver in the grass where gold waits
strung with jewelled drops
How many birds can the sky hold
and why do the lines they write fade
before I have read their stories?
Dull cloud squalls and boughs bend
but the songbirds undaunted
put two fingers up at the tempest—
spring is coming in gnat swarms
and there is fattening to be done
before the babies come.
Still they come, the birds,
not sky-filling but speckling
in discreet patches, moving targets,
keeping out of range, horizon to horizon,
tree-resting with folded wings
then moving on. Birds
calling, lingering the time of a meal
to flash bright feathers and fly where birds
go to be just birds,
find seeds, grubs undisturbed.
Spring springs from their wings unfolded,
defying cold and gale, storm-windy rain; the birds
still come, little heroes.
Silver the river in the sun
serpentine its coiled meanders
sombre the birdless trees
in this silent spring.
Golden the light
that falls from a sunless sky
in the time between
the end and the beginning.
Black and endless
the night that seeps
while stars sleep
into our final dreams.
Red as flames are red
that leap and eat the sky
the cool green leaves
and all is crying.
Green with hope
the new grass growing
and kinder hands tilling
this rich earth.
Merril’s poem yesterday reminded me that I haven’t used this image in a while. Today is my birthday and I am planning on being a spark.
When we dig beneath the fallen leaves,
brown in the incessant rain,
and there is only cold earth,
and overhead there is no sky,
just the sodden stuffing of a burst mattress,
when the cold is, and the rain is,
and nothing comes to fill the outstretched hand,
no joy, no timid, whisker-twitching hope,
we shrink, tempted by the swollen river
and its powerful embrace.
Every day, dull as ditch water,
chill and bleak, I give thanks
that there are always the birds,
cold, hungry, watchful,
dancing like sparks
from the furnace of the universe.
robin tweets his warning cry
from his honeysuckle bush
none shall enter
this private tangle
egrets in the meadow
pause in their insect search
then resume unconcerned
were for someone else
crows mob the buzzard
black voices hoarse with hatred
but when the red kites arrive
slow in tight formation
no one moves
In this puddled field
cricket-blithe after the rain
where frogs rattle and croak deep in grass-hung ditches
I hear the lowing of cattle long gone,
a plaintive moan blowing between the trees
dripping from spring-hazed branches of a different time.
Woodpecker remembers and thrush,
though the hedges are sparse now,
meagre as a cold spring.
They remember days that never ended
carried on the nightingale’s song
moonlit-dancing through the woods.
Silver-dewed and dropped
the field where the pheasant coughs
too shiny new to know anything but triumph
in his hard-won freedom.
Another migraine has slowed me up today. My brain is in tatters, couldn’t get to grips with Jilly’s quote at all. However, this photo by Paul Militaru is exactly how I feel.
‘Bird leaves’ as a concept for stray feathers is my youngest’s, she whose knowledge of natural history is about as extensive as Ghengis Khan’s knowledge of the internal combustion engine.
a tree full of birds
drawn home to roost,
at my feet,
a handful of feathers,
fallen bird leaves,
tossed in the wind.
In this wild world sea,
chicks of mine,
there is no safer haven
than in my strong branches.
Mad woman from mediocrity, muses.
Writer & Photographer
of a son
Minoan Linear A, Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae
Ramblings of an Irish ecologist and gardener
Poetry of a changing Earth. The grief is real--so is the hope.
Inspiring others through the written word, fictional blurbs & documenting my writing process from scratch.
occasional musings of an itinerant seanchaí polishing his craft online
The Things That Are In My Head.
offbeat words for you...
Just writing what's on my mind
AS HUMILDES OPINIÕES DE UMA MULHER DE CORAGEM QUE DIZ SIM À VIDA!
a place to smile
My journey through photography
Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
≈ fictionalpaper / piccoloscissors / creativeglue ≈
Philosophy is all about being curious, asking basic questions. And it can be fun!
Not a literary magazine for ordinary times, but a journal for an exceptional one. Writing the pandemic, together. Image, Somewhere in Time by Hengki Lee: Instagram @hengki_lee
Running in the slow lane
It started as a 366 - now a regular Photoblog- just for the love of taking photos and sharing them.
I talk you talk we'll talk
Promoting mindful living
A r t w o r k . . . f r o m . . . . . . H a m b u r g . . . . . . . . . . . . . G e r m a n y
October and November 2019
"Words are all we have" Samuel Beckett.
sharing the stories of interconnection
Jottings of a Storyhound
Books & Bonsai