BIRDS AND A RHODE ISLAND RED

A TRIBUTE TO BIRDS

I do not pretend to be an ornithologist but birds fascinate me and I admire those artists and writers who have given us great poems and beautiful illustrations of birds through the centuries. Alexander Wilson lived from July 1766 to August 1813. He was born in Scotland but left suddenly after publishing a satirical poem about the dire conditions for weavers in Paisley, (he worked as a weaver), naming a notorious owner called William Sharp. Unfortunately he also blackmailed him and had a court case that forced him to emigrate to America when he was 27. There is a statue of him at Paisley Abbey because of his brilliant illustrations and poetry about birds in North America. Like many artists of the time, he died early, in poverty at 47, but the legacy of his works was printed posthumously by his friend and admirer. I read a lovely poem of his called Blue Bird.

I suppose my interest was piqued because my father had an old well-loved stock car called Blue Bird, nothing to do with birds of course.

Furthermore, I visited Paisley with Robin when his family was being researched for a TV programme in England: “Who Do You Think You Are.” His great grandfather had worked in one of the Paisley weaving factories during the time Paisley shawls were made fashionable by Queen Victoria. Incidentally, they fell out of fashion when the Edwardian bustle came in, the shawls making women look quite misshapen with humped bottoms.

In my family in Ireland, the women were often given signs by birds for births and deaths, and my mother who kept hens, had ‘a way with birds’, able to heal a little Silkie rooster that had been mauled by the strutting Rhode Island Red vicious cockerel. The last straw was an attack by the said Rhode Island Red on my brother, tossing him into nettles, and the fact that he tried to peck at our beloved Lakeland Terrier’s eyes. In one foul swoop his neck was wrung and he ended up plucked, methylated, and on the dinner table. My brother refused to eat him saying: “He tried to kill me when he was alive, and I don’t trust him now even when he’s dead.”

He befriended the Silkie who recovered well in the warmth of the fender beside the range, and my brother taught him to ride on his shoulder like a parrot and jump through hoops and spin on top of a long-handled brush. The Silkie loved to be spun around, then flew off and walked drunkenly for a minute or so, only to fly up onto the head of the brush to be spun again… like a child on a roundabout. My mother did put a stop to my brother winding paraffin-soaked rags around the hoop, thinking he could train Silkie to jump through the burning hoop. He was our pet until he eventually died of old age but not from being cooked by a flaming hoop.

I have a suite of poems I wrote for some birds and an illustration or two from my King Wren.

My birds have little jackets, frocks, and waistcoats, and the ‘inner child of nature’ that surely lives whom I call AwynBeag relates to this magical world that I use frequently for my illustrations where it all comes to life. Storytelling crosses all barriers to an expanding universe.

NEST OF WINTER

I watch the dawn creep over trembling foliage,

And observe the winter stealing the souls of trees,

My heart frozen in solemn silence in the death-white peace.

The pulse of spring buried low and deep in measured degrees,

My anxious thought that life will thrive within this secret nest

Gives way in humble grace to nature’s mastery of the most and least.

WREN

Harsh is the winter that denies seeds to the wren, and cruel the wind that chills to

the bone.... creatures falling asleep and feeling cold...

EAGLE OF THE NIGHT (THE OWL)

Eagle of the night, friend of strangers in the dark,

Seer of the unseen, you who are of silent feathers,

Companion of Athena,

You, who bring light to those without sight,

Be my eyes in the blackest of deep places,

Be my breastplate of wisdom in the Court of Indra,

Be the bearer of keen insights in soothsaying

And the revealer of Truth in all omens and faces.

Eagle of the night, guardian owl of all forest trees,

Keeper of the woodland, you who are witness to secrets,

Companion of Hecate,

You, who bring solace to walkers of the twilight,

Be my ears in the depths of noiseless places,

Be my potent quill in the writing of sacred Law,

Be the plumed cloak of refuge, talon and claw,

And the revealer of mysteries in all arts and graces.

STONE CURLEWS

Secretly watching the spectral gathering of the stone curlews,

Leaping wildly, striped wings in full display,

The autumn dances heralding the approach of winter days,

Courting birds in regal ritual, heads bowed in opposite ways,

And wailing, plaintive cries haunting the downs like banshees gone astray.

Golden eyes scanning the heaths and land for danger,

And upon seeing me, sudden play of death, startling to see,

Heads and necks stretched out upon an array of sticks and stones,

Sacrificial offerings presented in the most unconvincing way.

BIRD SONG

Softly tender is the song that rises from the speckled breast of the nut-brown thrush,

And sweetly piping is the fluting of the blackbird’s anthem in the fresh-wet dawn.

I am cradled in the savage beauty of the air-borne tunes in the wild woods,

Sacred harps plucked freely in the wind-rush choirs of birds in changing moods.

Gently ever is the dust of stars scattered across the black bowl of hollowed sky,

When all living creatures upon the earth are in the sweetened death of slumber-breath.

Only the lark soars high to follow the light of stars in this great deep dark,

And sings a melody that flies the soul to places higher still to soothe the heart.

BASKET

Taking my basket out... scurrying through the grounds... one eye on the

mistletoe for fear it should fall...imagining kissing under the berries and

scrunching under apple branches…

hoking the grounds, scouring the ponds, heart-lit murmurings to blown toads...

where is it? ...whispering madness...

where is the treasure? show me the bounty...

slithering snakes smiling their way back home...

where is it? show me the bounty?

jackdaws scolding... go back, it is cold... go back! go back!

wind-fresh face and stinging gusts ...laughing softly...

magpies turning cold-eye stares... competing for glinting jewels...

thrushes head-cocked to the ground... must eat... speckled eggs to clock,

where is it? ...smiling delightedly... on the rampage with nature...

do not worry, little friends, do not worry your little hearts,

I borrow only what belongs by rite... sHe will give it back in wishes

NOTHING SO LONELY

Nothing so lonely as the sound of the wild swan winging the air,

When the lifting splash gives way to the lamenting song in the sky,

Droning across the winter lakes, beating the air in hushed singing,

Her heart and mine pining love, time and away that can never die.

Nothing so lonely as the call of the solitary eagle so far and so high,

When the piercing cry cuts through sighing thoughts and silent ears,

Echoing across the desert crags, lancing the wind in silent ringing,

This mind and mine dancing tears, time and away that can never die.

MO EALA… MY SWAN

Sweet unwilling song of swan I never want to hear,

For the trilling dirge she sings when death comes nigh,

And parting from heart-love so pure, so bright, so clear,

Spawns only deep wound of savage smote and piteous cry.

I send her wings of words so deep and brave in truth,

And spin them in soft grace of life-long pine,

Her song so defined in eloquence of timeless youth,

I can never bear the cleaving of her soul from mine.

ODE TO A MOCKINGBIRD

If I had an ocean full of ink in which to dip my pen,

And all the eagles’ wings of quills with which to write,

And if I had desert sands of paper glowing white

I could not scribe in all the words of any lands the value of your might.

If I plucked the sweetest strings of each and every harp,

And blew soft the satyr’s pipes that steal the loving hearts,

And if I strummed the finest lutes carved from all the special barks,

I could not match all the notes or any chords that from your throat departs.

If I mourned the passing souls of all the birds that sing,

And softly wept the lakes of tears in grief and sorrow,

And if I tried to count your hours of joy in the day and in the morrow,

I could fill the seas and never reach the end of songs that you can borrow.

KINGFISHER

Glittering water like sunlit diamonds dripping off the sallow willow,

Soft blond fronds trailing on the dappled river like a kneeling maiden,

Anxious to see her reflection to know she is there, and there to be seen,

And perched upon her arm, you, so bright, so blue, so green, colour-laden,

Painted by the hands of gods unseen, vivid in your shy majesty.

Flashing turquoise as you take to wing,

Whistling, trilling so high and sharp, no song to sing,

Fleet burst of radiance across the shallows,

Dipping for the stickleback, in billow spray,

Bringing back unwary prey to beat senseless against the Sally branch,

To flatten dorsal spines, which vanish in morsel of headfirst swallow.

And shivering, I watch you, King of fisher birds,

Watch you from secret recline beneath my sallow willow.

THE HERON

Only this heron gracefully dances across the rising moon, and dips her feet daintily

upon the splashing diamond waters, startling the hedge-witch child who diligently

counts the nine steps to flight. Only this heron runs that race, lifts into the free air, draws

back her crested head and arches broad ink-hemmed wings into the gathering night. Only

this heron, poised motionless in dark shallow stream, patiently awaits the unaware fish, then

stabs artfully with dagger-sharp bill making her kill. Only this heron observes and responds

to the mating dance, the puffed chest and bobbing crest of a lover’s stance in a glorious

dawn. And only this hedge-witch child knows how the chicks emerge, clad in their long

sparse down that is bristly on the crown with a comical crest that outwits her best. And only

AwynBeag laughs with delight at the very sight, for it reminds her of her own hedge-witch

hair when she arises from dreams in the nest.

DIPPER

Dipper, Dipper, biding your time, come out from behind the waterfall,

Quit your hiding for I can see you fine under the bank overhang, you know,

Dipper, Dipper, come out from beneath the bridge, stop following the river so.

I hear your call, I hear it well, I hear you sing your song,

Above the rushing whirr of your wings, above the water swell.

Dipper, Dipper, busy, busy, bobbing, flying, swimming,

Even wading underwater up the bed of the fast-flowing stream.

How do you march against the current, nowhere to be seen?

Dipper, Dipper, perch on the boulder, chasing the water with your eyes,

Finding tiddlies and striddlies inside the river

And giving the fish a big surprise!

LITTLE GREBE

Little dabchick, what are you doing there, all dapper and ducking in the Queen’s

best lake? Ball of feathers, up-tail, down-tail, diving and bobbing for even smaller

fish, for pity’s sake. Little Grebe, with your fluffy-striped head, and now riding on the back

of your red-bibbed mother, are you pretending to be dead, so tucked in there that I fear you

might smother?

DUSK COMES SOONER

Dusk comes sooner and dawn comes later in the winter days leading to the long

nights,

When the mist of human tears falls lightly on my heart hollowed in waiting,

And there is no warmth from a rising moon over my head in this dark place of wanting,

Only the pleasure of the haunting song of the nightingale gives me wings,

And never too late nor too soon is this treasure that causes souls to smile and sing

For then the voice of hope rings out in me, calling for the light of Spring again.

I UTTER YOUR NAME

I utter your name in the bowl of the night, and plead with the stars and the pale

moonlight. I call you to me in the pillow of dark, in the call of the nightingale, in the

song of the lark.

FAREWELL

Farewell from every star of might that shines upon you in the night. Farewell from

the deepest heart of love I sealed just for you. Farewell, and know that time alone has

devoured our precious hours. Farewell from all the shadows of the grey, and from the

blinding light of day. Farewell, my Love, Farewell, my friend, Farewell from Now until The End.

DWINA ***