A Stroll Around Castle Grounds – Week 36 #52weeksofnaturepoetry (Fundraising for RSPB)

Each step brings acrobats

hopping from their low, thin tightropes:

a dazzlement of light-green bodies

shifting soundlessly

into the unplanned arrangement of wildflowers

at the edge of the castle’s grassy moat.

Meadow browns and gatekeepers

rest on knapweed, thistles, oxeye daisies;

invisible from atop the battlements,

mesmerising at ground level.

Pausing for shade, sun having summoned

salt droplets from our skin,

a casual glance at nettles lining the path

reveals white and milk chocolate swirls

clinging all over the leafy stingers;

slimy occupants taking no chances

at being seen.

Further into the surrounding woodland,

jackdaws cackle,

while bronze feathers streak through the sky,

too fast and too distant to identify.

Amongst the branches of a full tree,

this mystery lands, watching –

for threat or prey?

The direction of its gaze is impossible to determine.

Nevertheless, we feel its keenness.

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.]

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Chapped lips, worn shoes

Who knew speech could be connected to footsteps?

I didn’t, before I met you.

 

Every step you take

carries its own conversation, its own beat,

its own theme.

 

Observations of ourselves,

down to our mirrors,

the characters we play or the roles we choose.

 

The sun can be high, or switch with the moon.

Dusty rock or marshland, it matters not.

 

The well you speak from never runs dry

as your steps don’t falter.

 

Unless you’re catching forty winks,

that is.

Sense

I take a day and pop it, pill-like, into my mouth.

At first, it’s sour. Scrunched-face sour.

Then the coating dissolves in the rain.

My tongues finds sugar in the flower petals,

bright flags ready to be folded with the first frosts.

Catching, strong coffee finds me. I don’t

like the taste of coffee. I don’t drink it.

I absorb the bold, smokey bean smell

and take energy just from that. Cut grass,

dew-wet, on walking  boots. Spikes

that fall to people, instead of people

falling to spikes. Tea to wash it down.

Clouds with Wings

I stroll down the path,

well trodden, like the ones

your feet automatically follow even when you’re not thinking where you’re going and suddenly find

a sharp turn;

you’ve arrived at your destination.

Yet this time,

I turn and find myself not

at the big, towering structure of work,

but stepping onto a white fluff

that spreads great feathered wings and lifts me up

high.

The wind whips my hair around,

obscuring my vision,

then it clears and I’m chasing dandelion seeds

across the skyline.

A V of birds passes nearby,

I wave at them,

wishing them luck in their new land.

My winged cloud plummets;

I wonder where it might stop.

It doesn’t stop at all.

The ground rushes up, but I pass through it

into a dark, warm cocoon

of blankets and hot water bottles.

I realise I’m holding my breath.

I release it, along with my cosy shield

and find my feet

have stopped

right where they should.