My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the category “Birds”

Midsummer crow

Aaaarrrkkk!!!
Crow the black
cawing in the morning
from his lofty perch;
this Summer Solstice
is his alone.
 
Harbinger of doom
Picker of corpses
Guide to lost souls
Friend to Pagans
 
Raven’s little brother
descended from Thought and Memory;
who sit upon the shoulders
of the one-eyed god.
They see all
and tell him everything.
 

Advertisements

Brass

Pavements,
spat on.
Statues,
shat on.

Marble and metal heavyweights,
like huge paperweights
Tributes to persons from another age:
forgotten,
except by the pigeons
and their stained reminders
as a burger wrapper takes to the air
and tumbles down the street
in a rustle
amid the bustle
of a city on the move.

In contrast to the statue:
a memory given permanence;
an old campaigner prominence.

But soon it will rain
and extricate it from the excrement
of the ignorant pigeons;
and the crapping crows.

Morning mist

Waiting for the kettle to boil I took my usual 5-minute breather on the balcony, around 5.30am.  It had rained heavily the night before and the morning found itself under a heavy grey cloak.  I always enjoy standing out there; breathing, observing, listening and thinking.  The mountains wore skirts of cloud.  I came in, tea in hand and sat down, with just the first sentence in my head.  Strange how things go off on a tangent as they develop.

___________________________________________________________________

The cloud clung to the sides of the mountain.  Beyond it, the sun had risen but the day had dawned pale and would remain that way.   Water from last night’s rain clung to everything.  Hidden blackbirds chattered in the trees and every now and again a crow would raise its voice above the drip, drip of the water.  Pine scent filled the air, which was clean but sombre.

It was time to move.

There was now enough light to get a helicopter in the air and heat imaging would see through the cloud.  He was sure he’d heard dogs in the valley below, and the rain wouldn’t cover his scent for long.

He grit his teeth as he tipped a little schnapps from his flask onto the blood-soaked gauze on his thigh.  The schnapps was the only thing between a usable leg and infection.  In this humidity gangrene would take hold soon if he didn’t find the help he knew was waiting for him.

Four miles to the border.  Four miles till the forest sloped down on the other side of the mountain.  He put all his weight on the pine branch he was using for a crutch and placed his holed leg forward.

It was time to move.

Lunch in the park

Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds

Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park

20140714_135037[1]

Spring morning

Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?

As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.

“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.

Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.

The war, Baby.

The lines.  So many of them it seems, interconnected and weaving a spider’s web of expression (exhaustion) on my face.  My face.  My Insomnia.  My card.  I present me and myself to you, my expression (exhaustion) for you to see.  Is it not enough to just get through the day without having killed or been killed, to keep your job, to love your wife/partner/mistress/friends?  What does the world want from me at this hour – always?  Why does it not let me sleep?

We went through the war, Baby.  Almost 15 years, you and I.  Our war.  Troughs deep as trenches, trapping body, poison, blood but offering shelter.  A temporary escape?  Choose the sniper’s bullet or machine-gun mow-down.  The result’s the same.  Bleeding, twitching body on the ground.  Life-draining.

The war Baby.  Those truces. Those long (but not long forgotten) truces.  Not a trough or trench in sight.  Poppy-field sunrise.  Blackbird reveille.  No scars, bullet wounds or barbed-wire kisses. Just us: and the world.  When did you realise that Baby?  Just us.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Old Birdman

Old Birdman sits and stares

Squinting in the sun

The sparrows eagerly await the moment

when he

Opens the white paper bag

placed upon his lap

They know him now

and his eating habits.

 

The bag rustles

He looks inside

No smile lights his face

as he takes out

the sandwich

Which he will share

 

They gather around his feet

never coming too close

awaiting the moment

he eats and drops the crumbs

He watches the pigeons on the grass

fed fat from passers-by

He hopes they stay where they are

and not chase his sparrows away.

Post Navigation