#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

Not Just A Vampire’s Friend – Week 48 #52weeksofnaturepoetry (Fundraising for RSPB)

Cult classics feature their likenesses

in every other scene,

encouraging rumours of blood-thirsty beings

partial

to sinking their teeth into human veins.

And while, yes, Vampire bats do exist,

they’re native

to Central and South America:

weighing just two ounces,

their subtle feeding habits

don’t even disturb their prey.

Now, swing your attention

to (the often overcast) British skies,

and listen as I tell you

of the wonderous night-time furry fliers

woodlands and old buildings

readily hide.

Microbats, they’re dubbed,

as on the whole, they are rather small.

Don’t be fooled into thinking

they’re a single species, however,

for the term encompasses seventeen families,

diverse in every way –

from ear length to where they roost,

nose shape, and fur colour, too.

(And for those of you concerned,

they’re insectivores, all.)

Echolocation, that mystical-seeming skill —

with it, they navigate

the all-important hedgerow paths

between sheltered sleeping quarters

to feeding grounds,

where they zoom, zoom

to snap up flies, moths and gnats.

Yet threats lurk everywhere,

sometimes in the shape

of a misinformed homeowner,

fearing wires and woodwork

will be gnawed.

Forced awake and shunted out

during hibernation,

precious energy reserves deplete

until the bats

can go on no more.

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. 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!

Poetry

The Tower

The tower

is an island

all of its own.

 

The tower

is a needle

in an embroidery pattern.

 

The tower

is a hand waving

both hello and goodbye.

 

The tower

is a tree,

branch-less yet sturdy.

 

The tower

is a central pole

in a big top circus.

 

The tower

is polished crystal,

mirroring the stars.

 

The tower

is just a tower,

when all’s said and done.

Poetry

Down the hall

The hall was hot

with a fiery glow,

great wafts of smoky air

swept towards me with mighty blows.

 

I knew what awaited,

how could I not

have heard of the beast

who occupied this spot?

 

 

Staring at me

through the door’s seam,

I saw two green, glowing eyes

and wings cramped against the beams.

 

My hand shook

as I reached for the knob,

after all, a dragon’s breath

could reduce me to a messy blob.

 

But a beast

shouldn’t be trapped

just because some people think

it’ll eat them for a snack.

 

Bravely, I opened the door,

overcoming my fear

as I stepped right into

its tiny, sparse lair.

 

I braced myself for the worse,

yet the dragon shied away from me.

Then I saw the chain around its legs.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll set you free!’