Two poems - one silly one written in the last few weeks and one nature-inspired one written in late November 2020 after watching an incredible starling murmuration at the RSPB reserve at Fen Drayton Lakes in Cambridgeshire.
We see plenty of starlings around here but, unfortunately, they don't seem to murmurate in the area!
Not connected, but I had my closest experience yet with a stag yesterday. Louis was chasing it in our woods (from a distance - as he does!) and he drove it right in my direction. It passed about five feet from me, followed by Louis about a week later!!
Anyway, here are the poems :
Voices from Nutsford House
What is that on the bird feeder?
What is that on the bird feeder?
Have you seen my hairclip?
No!
What is that on the bird feeder?
What is that on the bird feeder?
I’m sure I had my hairclip.
It’s a blow!
What are we having for supper today?
What are we having for supper today?
Where is my hairclip?
I don’t know!
What are we having for supper today?
What are we having for supper today?
Shall I make a curry?
Too slow!
Louis’s covered in mud again.
Louis’s covered in mud again.
We need more butter!
Wait a mo!
Louis’s covered in mud again!
Louis’s covered in mud again!
Is it still raining?
It would seem so!
Have you cleared some leaves away?
Have you cleared some leaves away?
How is it still raining?
Well, hello!
Have you cleared some leaves away?
Have you cleared some leaves away?
It can’t still be raining!
There’s a rainbow!
Have you shut the chickens up?
Have you shut the chickens up?
We’ve run out of fruit juice.
I know!
Have you shut the chickens up?
Have you shut the chickens up?
They drink so much fruit juice!
Makes them grow!
What is that on the bird feeder?
What is that on the bird feeder?
You’ve asked me that question.
So!?
What is that on the bird feeder?
There’s something new on the bird feeder.
You’re sure it’s not just …
A sparrow?
Starlings at dusk
Half dark, half light,
The dusky red and orange sky,
The majesty of the evening light
Welcomes us, enthralled,
To nature’s auditorium,
This festival of sight.
We find a spot to wait it out.
A half moon looks on,
The best seat in the house.
The stage is bare,
The lights dim.
And then,
First a murmuring, an awakening,
In the wings semi-nocturnal arguments erupt,
Playground chatter.
Like rowdy teenagers, they interrupt
In high-pitched discourse,
Clicking, gurgling,
These loutish delinquents of the sky.
Then more, the noise swells,
Hubbub, babble, a commotion brews.
And then, look, in the sky,
Silhouetted against their fire red canvas,
The aerial acrobats stand by,
Thugs, no more.
Flying.
Twisting and turning,
Rising and falling,
Like iron filings shaped by a magnet
They dance the evening by.
The shapes, the shapes they make,
These acrobatic artists of the sky,
Painting their canvas with hope and light.
Pulsing, breathing as one.
One flash a dragon,
The next, a whale, a dolphin.
Black then grey,
Dark then light,
An otter! A throbbing, living, moving spectacle to thrill
Their devoted crowd.
Fleeting images, never still
But vibrant, full of life.
Living sculptures in the sky.
And look, another group
Late to the scene but keen to make up time,
They race across the stage
In hot pursuit.
But soon, too soon,
The darkening light.
Like dancers at the end of the night,
Their energy spent,
The ballet ends.
The speckled hoodlums return,
Like rowdy clubbers arriving home
They rest in trees, in reed beds,
Still keen to chat the night away,
Their acrobatic displays
Consigned to memory,
Teasing us for another day.
And we, our weary way we wend,
Cold, but warm from the glow
Of this natural pageant,
This circus of life.