It's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections.
Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
Designated VIPs: we are chosen by a robin who stands on his platform (stump of a pruned elder-branch) not far above our car, in the tree-enclosed park, performing so earnestly, trilling his tiny whistle.
Bold to stay put, his rubicund bib full, his eye beading us: "You come to see ducks and gulls; but I am the singer whose trills will trigger in your memory."
Easter has reached its Revivalist arms back into mid-February with a great profusion of vernal green Alexander umbels.
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We play Jekyll, and hide within the big-glassed temples to Nature, looking out on expanses of brightly sunlit peace:
winter's reed-straws packed close, mud, patterned and textured by dead samphire and blue-sky-waters, old ruts of some tractor or dredger, sun-modeled as a Jupiter-moon flyby, and waders working for subsistence - bills dab, jab, shovel, twist - neck vibrations signalling swallowing.
Three ducks, heads subsurface, hidden activities bobbing bodies expressed in subtle concentric rings interlinking... So exactly chalked, a pastel, gibbous moon peers down monocular upon the late afternoon sun, low over dunes, who throws our long legged shades along the beach, over sea-strewn ruins of the bunker, on which we climbed precariously, while white foam washed round, flopped up, splat, to catch us if it could, though it couldn't.
A yearling gull flies skew to hover-stall land by our feet to steal crumbs fallen from the disintegration of our sandwiches held in chilled hands -
would've liked to take the crumbs from our mouths, or from the sandwich bags which sleeve them from our mitts – cut out the middleman...
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...yet even so could never beat (back from Titchwell bird reserve for daily shop) that Tesco car-park drake for utter bold folly: stationed on a white line, marking the 'road's theoretical limit,
he knows he has the right of it and won't move though I first mistake him for a plastic bag, would cut the corner, but for his more sensible missus, edging away from my wheels, giving the game away...
Blackbirds there behind tall hedges, sing deep into twilight.
