April 2017 poems

April 2017

The April theme was Birds & Flowers, so they are roughly in that order, and there are also some lovely other contributions…

Spring bird walk

We went on a bird walk with “twitcher” Cliff Dean,
He promised a host of birds to be seen,
We’d hear their tweets, calls and whistles,
The sound of the Thrush, both Song and Mistle.

First we heard a Robin with its plaintive song,
So familiar we hear it all year long.
Next was a Great Tit with plumage sublime,
Then the Yaffle drumming on wood
Hoping to find a mate if only he could!

High in a tree as small as can be
We spied the wee Goldcrest through the ivy.
Just above ground we heard a shrill sound of a Wren,
We paused and listened and carried on walking again.

High on the thermals, way up in the blue,
Buzzards soared, not one or two but a few.
Down to the lakeside, “binos” at the ready,
There flew a Mute Swan with wing beat so steady.
And then down amongst the weeds so wet
There stalked the snow white Little Egret.

We had come to the end of our walk,
And Cliff called us together to talk.
How many species had been seen by us?
Thirty or forty? No, fifty plus!

–  Corvus Wood

The Buzzard

What do you see upon this ground,
Drawing circles way up high?
Your cry cascading in mournful sound,
Wrenching our eyes to the clear blue sky.

Effortlessly soaring, wings so still,
Do you sense my wonder in your form?
Are you focusing upon a kill,
Or preparing for a coming storm?

Can you feel my envy of your sure flight?
Warm sun on feather, talon and beak,
Am I the object in your sight,
Oh Buteo buteo what do you seek?

– Paul Johnson

Little Egrets

The marsh was such a haven
Before the scar of the road,
Resistance and protection
Eventually overrode.

But since that huge new lake
Has made flooded permanence,
The wildfowl is a’changing
With happy circumstance.

I’d never heard of Egrets,
Not Little, Snowy or Great,
The heron’s second cousin,
White plumage quite ornate.

Now Little Egrets gather
All ungainly yellow feet,
A true delight to spot,
They’re awkward and they’re sweet.

It’s an unexpected blessing
From the concrete brute,
Our nascent marshland dweller
A welcome new recruit.

They join the swans and geese,
The moorhens and the ducks,
As nature reclaims the space
From the builders and trucks.

There’s no point being bitter,
The road is said and done,
We must accept its presence
And find the best outcome.

If it’s only Little Egrets
Maybe that’s enough,
The newest Crowhurst resident…
Nature’s great rebuff.

– M. Fish

On Crowhurst Marsh 16/04/17

The ox eye daisies

I love the ox eye daisies.
I picked them as a child.
We’d run across the banks and fields
Where they were growing wild.

My Mother’s favourite flower,
Blooming in the month of her birth,
I’d gather them for a present,
More precious than gems were they worth.

My Mother has long since gone,
The flowers became bittersweet.
Through tears I could not look at them,
From their beauty I would retreat.

Then memories became more joyful,
My grandchildren pick them for me,
From carpets of white and gold,
A vision for all to see.

I gaze upon them thinking
Of my childhood long since past,
And the daisies so loved by my Mother
Give memories that last and last.

– V. Mighall

Ox eye daisies by Valerie Mighall

Wild garlic haiku

Woodland astronomy
Starburst flashes heaven scent;
Silk green celestials.

Bluebell haiku

Woodland tapestry
Eyelash petals weep and flirt,
Purple gently nods.

– C. King

Early purple orchids in Quarry Wood

Our Orchids have been re-born,
But they look so sad and forlorn,
For all the wild flowers
Miss the April showers,
And no-one need mow their lawn!

– Paul Johnson

My emerald crown

Every morning since I heard you met someone else
I try on the crown of jealousy for size.
Most days it fits.
I polish the rubies with the sleeve of my pyjama shirt
and the deep mystical green of the emeralds
until they shine for all to see.
But this morning when I awoke
I thought of the supper I’d make tonight for a new friend,
the job interview I knew I was going to get,
the girlfriend who said I was beautiful
inside and out
and that my fragility would pass.
I trawled under the bed for the crown
but when I flipped it on, it wouldn’t stay proud.
It slipped to one side and the precious jewels dulled like brown paper and string.
I looked in the mirror.
Something plainer and closer fitting, I thought,
would go better with these cool new jeans.

– Adrienne Rosen

The gipsy caravan

Bruce’s caravan – photo by Juliet Moth

I wonder what he’s doing out there in his shed,
Building a gipsy caravan I’ve heard it being said.
As soon as it’s all finished he’s taking to the road,
With Margaret strapped in at the back to even out the load!
I don’t suppose they’ll go far – it’s difficult to say,
It depends upon the weather, or if the horse runs out of hay.
So while Mystic Meg sells pegs to any passersby,
Bruce is collecting firewood and making sure it’s dry.
Now when you walk up Station Road and glance up to the sky,
You may see Bruce’s bonfire and hear his gipsy cry
As he leaps over the ashes, as tradition doth decree,
We’ll make a gipsy of him yet -just you wait and see!

– Juliet Moth

A jungle birthday

Painting by Sue Laye

There’s going to be a birthday
The animals have heard,
They are getting so excited
As parrots spread the word.

There’s a lion and a tiger
And baby panda bear,
And butterflies are fluttering
High up on the air.

… Read the rest of this poem…

– Sue Laye

May 2017 poems
March 2017 poems