A glimpse of the wild

A snipe walks

between

sleeping ducks,

visible against the water,

a master of camouflage

against the reeds.

The winter sun

breaks through and

lights this perfect moment.

The pintail and teal sleep on,

turning slowly with the breeze

as we watch,

fill ourselves with

their colour and movement,

and take away our own small glimpse

of the wild.

Its been a bit grey, wet and windy here recently. Today was sunnier so I visited the local nature reserve. Sunday afternoon and it was busy. I started wondering if the birds have a sense of being watched by so many people. Probably not. But I love how we all have our own experience of the birds, of the low winter sun lighting up the reeds, glinting off the water, the fresh air in our lungs. How we take the memories, the images of the birds in the sunshine, and how we carry that light within us through the dark wet grey January days. We return to our indoor weekday lives accompanied by a glimpse of the wild.

Goldcrest

goldcrest.jpg

Glimpse of movement

overhead, a tiny bird almost

lost among branches

drops downwards,

capped fire-streak searching

restlessly for insects

expertly probing the bark then

stopping briefly to show

the world its beauty.

 

 

New for 2019, I’ve decided to start sharing my art here along with my poems.  I paint wildlife (mainly birds) on silk.  I’ve set myself the challenge to write a poem to go with each of my paintings, starting with this goldcrest that I painted last year.  I thought I’d try an acrostic poem, I’ve not written one of those since I was at school 30 years ago!  Hope you enjoy it & wishing you all the best for 2019.

River of wings

It starts with a drip, a drop, a splash

as a handful of starlings zoom past my window,

causing me to glance up from the computer screen.

I get back to work, but then

the trickle becomes a stream

and holds me, mesmerized.

Pulses, waves of flickering, fluttering birds,

hundreds, then thousands.

I cannot help but marvel,

following them with my eyes as they streak past,

just one tributary of a giant river of wings,

following them with my mind

to the nearby reedbeds

where they will join, and dance.

Thousands upon thousands coordinated

in breathtaking choreography

until on some secret signal

they descend to the reeds to roost.

Outside my window the river slows to a trickle

For a while, small flocks of stragglers whizz by

just drips and drops as darkness falls.

Sleep tight, little birds.

A walk in the rain

Ghostly pine trees,

hilltops lost in mist,

lake reflecting grey.

Drizzle,

then rain in sheets

scudding across the water.

Sweating in waterproofs

with leaky boots,

step by step

we are rinsed,

refreshed,

washed clean,

revitalised.