The Read Online Free
  • Latest Novel
  • Hot Novel
  • Completed Novel
  • Popular Novel
  • Author List
  • Romance & Love
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Young Adult
  • Mystery & Detective
  • Thrillers & Crime
  • Actions & Adventure
  • History & Fiction
  • Horror
  • Western
  • Humor

    Nature's Ways

    Previous Page Next Page
    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.

     
    Previous Page Next Page
© The Read Online Free 2022~2025