Fundraising for RSPB with #52weeksofnaturepoetry: Week 25 – Wren

Stepping into the garden, noting the overcast sky,

my nerves tingle at an alarming sound:

toy phaser guns billowing out blasts.

I freeze, eyes sweeping the area.

Is some hidden group of mischief makers

playing tricks?

Little bigger than my thumb,

a dumpy ball of feathers darts from the tree to my left

and into the bush in front of me.

Slim beak opening wide, it punches a complicated trill

full of science fiction sound effects.

Definitely the phaser source.

Troglodytes troglodytes:

Third smallest native bird;

voice unmatched by even the big boys.

A myriad of notes crammed into each second

like some world record attempt,

except this is its daily go-to,

repeated powerfully every time.

A stylish performer

(check out that bright eye liner!),

with stamina enough

to last the whole day through.

No drawn-out interludes here.

In the distance I hear another, song just as loud,

followed by a third.

Their voices soundscape;

already, the clouds have cleared.

The poem below is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, ‘traditional’ fundraisers etc.) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

(Also, please excuse the formatting. My poems are usually in stanzas, but WordPress always removes them.)

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#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 15 – Ms. Blackbird

Feathers of leaf drop, plain and inconspicuous:

you won’t see her until she darts, stone-skipping steps,

across the path and on, on

into the grass. Shape distinct now against the green,

her partner still outshines her in his black evening jacket,

tangerine beak lifted in lively chortle-song.

Often, his bold appearance

is what gives her away – rarely are they far apart;

a tiff or two won’t separate them for long.

While he entertains the gardeners, watchers, afternoon ramblers

with his dashing looks,

she hurries about, a curious rain of leaves and twigs

misting the inches above her head.

Her search for morsels is never-ending.

Unafraid is she of getting close

if it means a beakful of worms might be claimed.

Fuel for creating her latest architectural project,

this year’s nest. You may find it one day,

long after its time.

How many broods were raised in it, you might wonder.

How many indeed?

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, sport-style fundraisers etc) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 14 – Winged Meetings

The field is a mix of green and grey-white;

the sign of gulls holding parliament

in their silent, watching way –

aside, of course, from latecomers

who announce themselves without shame,

wanting the whole neighbourhood to know

they’ve finally arrived.

These hardy birds don’t turn a feather

at the drizzle, droplets running down their wings and backs

just like the ones hitting our umbrella and bouncing off to soak

into the already sodden, boggish ground.

We speculate over their intent,

curious to see if they’ll partake in five-a-side,

or if the goalposts they’re huddling round

serve some other purpose.

Safe beneath a patch of leafless shrubbery,

three pigeons look on –

a stereotype of grandmothers cooing

about the sullen youth of today.

Above, the lone crow taking a moment’s rest

suddenly finds his peace disrupted

by a flood of hyperactive starlings.

Looping and twisting, the effortless mimics settle

 on his very tree, and the one next to it,

clouding the area with constant chatter.

Grudgingly, he mooches away,

only to receive backup seconds later

from a quartet of jackdaws,

ready to bounce the riff-raff along.

Below, the gulls’ meeting remains at a standstill.

This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise money for the RSPB . To find out more about the project and how to donate, please visit my Just Giving page here.

Sharing is also much appreciated, as I’m trying to raise as much awareness of our local wildlife as possible. The more people who appreciate nature, the more likely it can be successfully protected.

Cursed ground

It’s just a patch of grass, as

green as that around it, yet

yellow and black tape cordons it off.

Why? What is so different, so dangerous, so other

about this patch?

Is something buried underneath,

alive still, twitching, itching to reach out,

grab ankles, uproot itself using umbrella mushrooms?

Maybe the other grass blades

simply decided they didn’t like that little patch,

that tiny section, that huddle of earth and sprouted seed.

Perhaps they can see something I can’t,

trapped in the details, their canvas of perfection rattled

because of the few individuals declared

broken who refuse to wilt under their gazes.

Or perhaps those cordoned blades

decided to erect a barrier themselves,

electric anger spiking

at being stepped on one too many times.

If we are ignored

The grass is grey, crisp bones poking through.

Buttercups, they are, dandelion clocks

chiming the century after the forests fell.

The echoes fertilise their corms, pushing to flower

at every survivor who stumbles across

holding up their torn petal-banners to give their voices

to the voiceless. Broken, worn, silenced before

by those who did not live to regret their iron fists, those who

choked on their black nectar as they feasted from golden mugs,

no-one left to mourn.

Afternoon in an empty park

The sun rests on my eyelids as I lie back,

the woven rope of the round swing-seat supporting my neck and spine

as I sway to and fro,

legs kicking out for momentum.

A cradle I’m rocking myself,

an afternoon whose warm hands soothe me without effort

and the breeze whispering its encouragements in my ears.

So this is what it means to relax.

Spring pebbles

I feel the nudge of it under my feet

Trying to topple me over

As it tries to be look out

For the burrow.

Playfully I lift my heel

To spy its pink nose

Before it darts back under,

Chased by the lingering frost.