In the Company of Birds

IN THE COMPANY OF BIRDS

 

 

 

Lea Knowles

 

 

 

 

 

 

A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME

 

 

ancient flyways

older than all the nations

transcend the ploys of men

 

 

the swell of autumn

flocks of wild geese fall to the

gentle drift of leaves

 

 

from the ends of the Earth

to find that same small space

the migrants return

 

 

following their flight

perfect parabolic descent

ending in a splash

 

 

woodpigeon

reflections on a puddle

how fine you look today

 

watching the lake

light descending from heaven

time and mind in the now

 

 

skilled in mystery

over vasts of ocean and air

the spirit of being

 

 

through innate wisdom

an over-riding order

to persist beyond our own

 

 

timelocked winter

abstract clouds of starlings

spring will soon be here

 

 

in Silent Valley

all along the gorsey path

stone chat sings to me

 

 

we’ve stolen their fish

so they’ve come for our chips

the gulls of St Ives

 

 

Solitary Blue Macaw

shrieks our guilt from the treetops

until he dies 

 

 

startled alarm  call –

oh! - just the telephone bird

slide back in snooze mode

 

 

geese are flying south

gloom and chill are deepening

with each wingbeat

 

 

robin stares in my window

flustered by swirling snow

can’t I come in?

pink chicks cheeping

playing chicken roulette

before the crushing tyres

 

 

four little chicks

growing into their world

everybody has a cage

 

 

magpie snowballs

plop into drifting snow then

bound for the bare tree

 

 

at last, at last

winter is i-goin out

how the birds do sing

 

 

hard blue day

blackbird risks his beak

on the frozen ground

 

 

solitary bird

sings to the new-born day

to share its warmth

 

 

flash of a blue dart

a kingfisher

rarely seen in these parts

 

 

screaming gulls wheel

over the shuddering cliff

of Moher

 

 

gulls lift and drop

an empty bottle is chased

by the banshee wind

 

 

snowy egret

trailing her yellow feet

splash against the green

bright hummingbird

probing forest flowers

you iridescent angel

 

 

rainforest drama

each bird, insect, raindrop

performing its part

 

 

Liver birds alway              

scanning the bay, or the pubs

for their men coming home

                                                                                                                          

 

midnight blackbird

singing from the street lamp

for no-one

 

 

a gust of litter

blasts the scurrying crowds

suddenly – a penguin!

 

 

basking on the runway

squadrons of starlings

waiting for take-off

 

 

autumn contentment

wide mudflats rippling to the

oystercatchers song

 

 

winter migrants

dabbling the shoreline

ringing season’s changes

 

 

sunlight on the rising river

birds on the shifting sands

deciding when to fly

 

 

from River Park heights

trying to name the birds - just

a fool on the hill

 

 

from the Pavilion

Mendelssohn accompanied by

gulls and crashing surf

 

 

autumn river runs

with the wind sprays the air

with screaming gulls

 

 

Woodside ferry looms

to the cry of invisible gulls

cold rising through my feet

 

 

one-legged heron                                                                             stares at his own reflection

balancing his thoughts

 

 

high over Hilbre

skylark sprinkles notes that fall

all around me

 

 

bleak emptiness

the evening curlew cries

after the ebbing tide

 

 

lone gull gliding

across the night sky – she’s

going to hit the moon!

 

 

Liver birds watch over us -

never to fly away

so, let it be

               

 

 

 

 

               

 

 

LAPWING

 

I only come to admire

your theatrical display,

your flouncing and tumbling

to lure, to deceive

till you get your way.

 

Lapwing, pee-wit, keeper of secrets

standing in the rain – lost

in secrets of your own.

 

 

 

 

 

SANDERLING

 

Darting on their pins

along the curling lip of the tide

standing alone

waiting for the secretive tide to turn

and leave something wonderful,

here they have laid their eggs

since long before we came

to eat our fish and chips and

slump in gusty deckchairs

or sit in cars sipping tea and

peering through misty windows.

 

Sanderling picks unheard

at the seaweed plaits

at the edge of the land

on the fringe of time.

 

 

 

 

 

LITTLE GULL

 

Cruising against the wind

dropping from sight

to reappear like magic

over and over in the teeth of the gale;

she’s found a way through

with her daemon riding on her shoulder.

HUMMINGBIRD

 

Like the blackbird

Singing in the dead of night

You sing alone

The outer world not listening

Not entranced by your magic colours

That streak and glint on your miracle wing

Teased by the plastic flower

That is your forest garden;

A glossy voiceless painting

In someone else’s hall.

 

 

 

CURRIED MAGPIE

 

Magpie stalks the open grass

Stabbing remains of late night Madras,

No apparent fear of hidden dangers

But watchful eye for movement of strangers.

 

No need to rush or get in a flurry

Stabs her beak into balti curry,

Selecting, rejecting pieces of naan

Stuffing her peak, full as she can

 

But becoming absorbed with the find she’s made

Does she notice the cat prowling the shade?

She fills herself up with more sticky rice then, flap! -

To the top of a tree in a trice

 

Almost too late – just made her breakaway -

Seems all of God’s creatures can murder a takeaway!

 

 

 

SONG FOR THE MAGPIE

 

I’m writing a song for the magpie

To teach him how to sing

To move in rhythm and shake the roots

Of his black and flapping wing.

 

He grips the minds of children

With his feathers all glossy and sleek

Then pecks their soul to pieces

And devours it with his beak.

 

So I’ve written a song for the magpie

But the magpie doesn’t care –

Parades before the camera calling

‘Catch me if you dare!’

 

 

 

BLUE-TITS

 

There are blue-tits in my garden

I love to hear them chirping;

I gave them fizzy pop to drink

And now just hear them burping.

 

 

 

CHAFFINCH

 

An excited flurry of feathers

schwerring in delight that we have come

twitting between branches

chirping and twirring from twig to twig

to claim a spec to see us better.

 

 

 

BARNSTONDALE

 

Where is that valley

that speaks softly with my memory

out of stillness

waiting for words to come

visions to replay those games and wars

around the fallen oak

whose beloved ribs remain -

Viking ship or dinosaur, these many years on?

 

Hazy places call to my reflection in shallow pools

where I discovered that waterfalls made sound

and on cold crisp days hands and cheeks raw

toes frozen in leaking boot.

 

And every spring the cuckoo echoed through the woods

from sunlit crown to tangled root

letting me know all is as it should be

in the world of birds and woods and drifting white cloud.

 

Then, one April came and went, then May and June

and the cuckoo called no more.                

 

 

 

SEAGULLS

 

I want to sail to a foreign shore

where ships don’t anchor anymore

where roosting gulls reclaim their past

and fish where once the net was cast.

 

I want to sail to a foreign shore

where the tide can’t reach me anymore

where I can recall how to fly

and find myself before I die.      

 

 

 

WATCHING THE GULLS

 

The river swells on a rising tide

boats refloat,

as I watch the gulls

unsettled from their roosts.

 

Watching the gulls, watching me

as if we hold a similar destiny.

 

The pin-striped man in the white saloon drives off

clearing the view to the open sea

but the workers in a council van

armed with chips, a flask or can

don’t ask about the gulls

and the gulls don’t question

the state of the tide -

accept things as they are

settled for the ride

rather better than me.

 

 

 

 

BLACKBIRD AND I

 

Blackbird in the palm

I recognise your jubilant song,

the one you sang in my garden

far away where we both belong.

 

 

 

 

CUCKOO

 

I can squawk and squirm and hassle,

of that I have no doubt

and I can position myself in the nest

with no fear of being kicked out.

 

 

 

BIRDS

 

Where have all the birds gone

frightened by some dog?

No, they’re a bit put out by climate change

so they’re hiding in the fog.                                                                                                                      2012

 

 

 

 

 

BLUE MACAW

 

Solitary Blue Macaw

alone and feeling rotten

shrieks our guilt from the treetops

until he dies -

all forgotten.        

 

 

 

 

CROW

 

Dodging traffic

crow negotiates with death

to peck a ready meal

or become one

 

THE WORLD OF BIRDS   

 

Perfection of form and plumage

range and haunt that sang

and called and hooted and whistled

that flirted and pecked among the leaves and stones

since an age before man was even the faintest glint

in the mind of his creator.

 

Now they dwindle by the hour and must

fit themselves into the chinks and hollows

that men have allowed.

And yet they still preserve for us

the wondrous clarity of their being.