#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 2 – Rambling along the cliffs

Our boots squelch, balance entirely dependent on

flapping arms and the promise of bird song up ahead.

Through the foliage below, silver and lapis

can be glimpsed.

Tide slapping the cliffs, spraying salty blisters.

They pop

just as the mud bubbles under us do.

Talons hover at eyeline; the huntress studies,

carefully, carefully. Dives.

Our attention is caught by

a rustling in the undergrowth

before we spot her ascent.

Beaked or whiskered, the noisemaker eludes our curious eyes.

Disappointed, we take

another step

and land in the view beyond:

green-gold-red and brown, flecked with neon lichen.

I whistle, attempting to mimic the motley of calls and responses

flitting from branch to branch.

Perhaps I can even entice the wind to tell me its secrets.

The trees join in, adding their groans and grumbles.

Great-grandparents chortling at mere youngsters.

This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise funds for UK wildlife charity RSPB and to encourage an appreciation for nature. If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing/reblogging and/or donating to the RSPB via my Just Giving page here.

Help keep wildlife wild.

Poetry

The Walking Tree

The tree gazed at the disappearing ground.

It couldn’t stay there,

its nourishment would be gone.

So it gathered up its roots into vast legs

and stumbled its way across the

evaporating forest

to an area of neat grassland,

digging down to plant itself beside

the hive of two-legged beings

who spilt their freshly poured coffee

and ran to their moving metal boxes

to get out of its wake.

Poetry

I wonder

I gather my thoughts in a wicker basket,

cover them over and stroll into the bluebell woods.

 

Always blue. Not cold blue. Warm blue.

 

Blue as fresh air and cackling creeks.

Of the lips of creatures stopping to drink,

unguarded, just for a moment.

 

The soft carpet under my toes

wriggles with ideas,

half-formed will o’ wisps

that jump up eagerly to my pensive basket.

 

One at a time, little ones.

 

When I cannot carry any more,

I sing a song to quiet them,

lulling them to sleep,

and journey back to my desk,

pen in hand.

 

My work begins.

Poetry

Faces in places

Faces glance down on us when we’re not looking.

Knotted mouths with noses in the air, hands

above their heads, pointing, staring,

laughing at how small we are

compared to their lengthy limbs

that could scoop us up if they could move at all.

The ivy beards cover their mouths,

fungi hiding their tears of mirth.

 

Poetry

Three trees

Arms outstretched, chest up

arched like the curve of a crescent moon,

the train of her long moss gown

sinking deep into the leafy mulch.

 

The light catches between its arms,

a diamond sparking in the rainbow wood.

Long legs fold into a bench,

fit for the white dusting of the sky.

 

He crouches into a ball, the circle

his body makes a seeing stone, a hole

for all to gaze through, penetrating the distance

to the other side. The trees wave back.

Poetry

versicolor

I can bleed all the colours.

You can open me up and read my text,

flick through to any page you like.

Find the golden ration in the spiral

of my ears, watch as they angle

to listen to the world breathe.

I can melt the ice with my sweat,

or freeze it again with my touch.

Watch rubies grow in the chambers of my heart

and see the sand heated into glass

replacing my valves.

Poetry

Story time. Discuss

The queen saw, pointing at,

while tears dripped

freely from her eyes.

 

They led her over

to him, helped her kneel

beside. As an afterthought,

 

piled leaves over his lower

half in an attempt

to preserve his modesty.

 

‘It’s over. It’s finally over.’

‘No. It’s just beginning.’