Nature's Ways

Talon and Beak

   

  To be able to fly is our dream.

  But think of being a killer on the wing.

  Few do, for we soar and glide in our minds,

  not stoop, stalk and pounce.

   

  Once, working on a car on a hot day,

  I lay on the grass and gazed skyward

  five hundred feet, where a family of buzzards,

  nine of them, rode thermals effortlessly.

   

  Adults screeched shrilly to trainee

  young, wheeling blueness

  in a vortex spiral of joy.

  No wing-flaps intruded.

   

  Flattened, as prey might be,

  I watched them survey

  their hunting-ground.

  Telescope-vision pinned me.

   

  My puny eyes saw something fall.

  Not a diving buzzard,

  but a dead rabbit, dropped

  by the mother to her son below.

   

  Wheeling in triumph, he dipped

  and let go, the rabbit

  falling fifty feet to the talons

  of his sister inverted to catch.

   

  That farm valley sky

  was scored by sharp wings.

  Migrant killers scythed,

  pursuing crescent swallows.

   

  A hobby, so fast and agile

   it can take dragonflies,

  blurred sickle wings

  through heat-haze.

   

  A flight of swallows

  jinked, fracturing a pattern

  that the hobby darted

  honed sharpness through.

   

  No game this, though swallows

  seem joyful at all they do—

  they tanked grass-high,

  seeking sheep as shelter.

   

  Acrobatic and alert prey birds

  were harder hunting than sparrows,

  who dust-bathed in the gravel

  of the lane ahead of my car.

   

  Slowing to allow their escape,

  a winged grey bolt scudded

  across my windscreen

  from over my car's roof.

   

  The sparrow-hawk sunk talon

  into sparrow back, not landing,

  this missile of death

  sped on, as I cried out in wonder.

   

  The hawk shadowed my car

  as cover, stalking the bathers.

  Would I have seen it in my mirror,

  if I'd looked? A barred killer in flight.

   

  Its sparrow victim scarce slowed

  the hawk's rapier flight

  as she pierced a gap

  in a tangled spinney ahead.

   

  The scarlet on raptor's weapons

  is seldom observed.

  Though piles of plucked feathers

  are proof of talon and beak.

   

  In The Graveyard At Dawn

   

  A green lad out walking his black dog,

  through potato-rotten fields

  in the half-light of dawn,

  enters the graveyard

  of his local flinty church

  through the back gate.

  The farm track continuing

  over hurdles of beech tree roots

  that lance into baby graves,

  tiny markers tilting—the boy

  hadn't known that infants died

  until his father told him so.

  Nervously scanning the shadows

  of a yew-shaded corner

  for a grief-crazed elder

  who lies out on his wife's grave,

  praying to join her

  by exposure and osmosis.

  The boy sees no raincoat shroud,

  and turns down the sandy path

  to the church, his dog,

  his best friend,

  spiritual reinforcement.

  A barn owl kewicks

  dissent at light's approach,

  as it ghosts away.

  Rain-sodden grass,

  from overnight storms,

  shows ski-drag tracks

  of feeding rabbits,

  which the boy hopes

  his dog doesn't see.

  An empty grave beckons,

  right by the path,

  a place long-occupied

  by Civil War dead.

  So, not empty then,

  it's soil-tanned

  warrior's bones lay

  among rotted coffin shards.

  Hard to tell which is which,

  as boy and dog gaze down,

  taking care to stay away

  from a rain-weakened edge.

  A deluge shaft to history

  that neither reveals

  or shelters any more.

  Mist burning off grave-grass,

  the boy rattles a church-door,

  locked tight against evil.

  Vicar roused from sleep,

  tousle-headed, gazing down

  from bedroom window,

  blinks owl-eyes towards graveyard

  as he hears the boy's tale.

  “Overtime for the grave-digger”,

  he mutters, carping at new demands

  from a long-dead guest,

  as he aims a blessing

  at the departing boy,

  who journeys into bright light

  down Rectory Lane.

   

  Tampa Town Bear

   

  They caught a huge Black Bear

  in Florida recently.

  Darted him in a public park,

  620lbs of chunkified bruin

  scrounging through bins.

  The second largest Black Bear

  recorded in Florida,

  but only by four pounds,

  which had me wonder

  how heavy bear turds are....

  The record-holder was squashed

  by a car, which is sad,

  and can't have done the car much good.

  But the bin-bear was saved,

  measured, maybe groomed a bit,

  and taken to a wild area

  near some trees and swamp,

  miles from rubbish-skips, shops,

  tourists and fast-food.

  Released from a cage,

  he lumbered towards

  a camera set on the trail.

  Will he know what wild food is?

  Chipmunks, squirrels, fish,

  roots and berries?

  Or will he have hunger pangs

  for McDonalds, Coke

  and French-fries?

  That obese bear

  isn't a fine specimen.

  More a junk-food addict.

  Bet he bellies back to the dumpsters....

   

  Perch is Good

   

  Leaning against rusty cage bars

  Contemplating the fallen seed.

  So much waste for only brief joy.

  Pecking, rearranging sparse plumage,

  Feathers dulled now, a cooler covering.

  Draughts chill these days.

  Mirrors are avoided,

  Boxed at with weak ire.

  Nobody rings my bell.

  Days in the sun warms

  Half-remembered songs,

  From chipped brittle beak.

  Though undercover quietness

  Soothes peaceful sleep.

  Chirruping quietly now,

   Once I fluidly squawked.

  No one to hear my call now,

  I grip my perch with hooked

  Claws, shuffling sideways into

  Time, thinking how I flew

  Through life in flurries

  Of colour and confidence.

  Not knowing my resting-place

  Would become m
y dying-place,

  I take what's good

  And hold on.

   

  The Old Skylark

   

  Earth beckons enticingly.

  The soil soft refuge

  From the tearing sky.

   

  Sharp zephyrs scrape

  Vents in his flanks,

  Winnowing flesh.

   

  Once he performed,

  Scratching sky, trembling

  Notes through air.

   

  Hooking breezes

  To scale aloft,

  Pursuing his song.

   

  Trampolining down

  descant chords

  to soft coda.

   

  Tumbling, grounded.

   Territorial proclamation

  Adrift on the wind.

   

  A swift run to nest

  Through furrows

  ’Twixt crops.

   

  Where he now sits

  Alone and afraid,

  His wings sheathed.

   

  All power wanes.

  His, now memory

  Of soaring.

   

  Forever encompassed.

  Earth brown replaces

  Sky blue.

   

  The Old Road

   

  Different colours now.

  A changed texture.

  Visitors stay longer.

  Smelling fresher too.

   

  Greenness coats black.

  Moss, fungi, lichens,

  Yellow types as well,

  Bayoneted by grass.

   

  Pecked asphalt crumbs,

  Dislodged, unused lay.

  No continual polishing,

  The surface puckers, cracks.

   

  Wildlife hops, scampers.

  Sunbathes on hot tarmac.

  Birds navigate air-space,

  Free of speedy metal boxes.

   

  Blossom dapples chipping.

  Hedgerows kiss above.

  A green corridor shimmers

  With pollen, seed and scent.

   

  Onion Skins

   

  Difficult to remove.

  Awkward to handle.

  Irritatingly clingy.

  Peeling away in shards.

  Sticking as if glued.

  Why so protective?

   

  I know people like this.

  Evasive, defending

  their inner thoughts.

  Hanging around

  for no good reason.

  Making people cry.

   

   

  Kissing-Gate

   

  Hinges oiled regularly,

  It's a well-loved portal.

  Rusted brackets cling

  To hand-glazed oak.

   

  The gate swings freely.

  Pausing, always pausing.

  For there's no other way

  Through it's narrow clasp.

   

  Soft laughter breaths,

  Pull questing lips

  Together, tender

  Moues glancing.

   

  Passing through

  A benign barrier.

  Proof of love,

  A brief joy.

   

  Kissing gate

  Swings freely.

  Welcomes all,

  The password is love.