#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

The Weavers – Week 38 #52weeksofnaturepoetry (A fundraising project for RSPB)

Silks ripple in the breeze,

heavy with sparkling dew;

every droplet

contains a speck of golden sunlight.

These fresh crystal balls

barely cause the tapestries to droop,

yet the intricate strands of each piece

are nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Crafted by master weavers

who calculate and consider everything,

down to the very fibres

best suited

for each section,

such wall hangings are among the best

nature has to offer.

For the overall frame

and anchors,

the strongest thread is used,

swapping to durable reinforcement

spiraling straight to the artwork’s centre.

Inner elements call for sticky coatings

and responsiveness,

enabling vibrations more delicate

than those of the finest tuned harp,

allowing immediate notifications

of newly arrived dinner guests

(or indeed, the main course).

Finally, neat additions of soft, plentiful gift wrapping,

placed here and there, create storage pockets

for perishable goods.

Unless all visitors have…departed,

in which case, the weavers work it

into cosy padding

to plump up their nurseries.

After finishing last-minute touches,

they tiptoe across their tightropes,

lounging at bullseye

or retreating to a nearby leaf

to admire their handiwork from afar.

Caring little

of what other species may think of their creations,

or whether the dew

might prove too weighty – for, of course,

it rarely does.

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!

[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]

#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

Beetle Quest – Week 34 #52weeksofnaturepoetry

Almost as content

in tended gardens and hedgerows

as amongst their favourite homely oaks,

hard-shelled stags wake

alongside May,

discarding worn duvets.

On warm, rich evenings,

the antler-jawed males

venture from protective shrubbery

into the open,

seeking Miss Right.

A quest worth any number of duels,

tough mandibles bashing together,

locked in combat with other eager suitors.

Yet victory celebrations are short;

barely opportunity to enjoy a round of sap

before setting off  –

time does not dally.


Days cool; fair ladies ensure

the new generation

lie protected in suitable nurseries.

All checks complete, they

and their weary knights

make ready for the ultimate rest.

Plump larvae hatch,

feasting on the lifeless wood

their parents chose to house them;

pinning badges of excellence

to their fleshy bodies

for being such good decomposition helpers.

After six years in training,

a lengthy nap is required,

along with a set of armour,

and for some, their experience sprouts

into antlers of their own:

the cycle begins again.

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!

[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]

Poetry

And now they are joining me for yoga

I saw you in that traditional place –

the bathtub –

small and crawling,

trying ever more feverishly to cling to the sides.

But every eight steps saw you slip and fall;

I could bear to watch it no more.

 

With shaking hands I picked you up,

placed you on the windowsill

and said farewell.

 

I thought no more of you

until a cousin

hitched a ride on my leg.

It was hot and the ground warm,

so I suppose I was the logical choice.

 

Transportation in a breeze.

 

And more recently, another friend

of yours

joined in with my morning yoga;

my back arched in cobra position

and they splayed out fully.

I wondered who would win.

 

Sensing my surprise, they scurried away.

 

I thought that was the end of the visits,

but in writing this,

approval had to be met,

so on the wind came another

ready

to notate the ink

with swift legs.

Poetry

Heat Haze

In the heat of summer,

when our throats

are thirsty, eyes unfocused,

sweat clinging to every part,

we hear the hum, loud as an engine

by our ear. It is the fly,

humble, persistent and even

happy in a group.

We often think of flies as dirty

deeply unclean

and unnecessary things,

disregarding

their role in decomposition.

From decomposition

comes nourishment

for the ground, the spark of growth

and life.

Perhaps that is why the fly

makes such a to-do

about its buzz.

Poetry

Vibrant wings

The butterfly beat

its wings lethargically as it rested

on the soil, cold winds turning

it into ice. Find a place, anywhere,

safe, to hibernate, it told itself.

Warm, secure, away from jaws

of those normally waiting to pluck

it from the sky.

That’s

how I came to have these wings

on my back. The butterfly found me,

and I accepted it.