Tag Archives: spring

The Blackbird and the Teapot

The Blackbird and the Teapot
( A spring song )

Big black blackbird,
hopping on my backyard wall,
you may know nothing
but your songs tell me you know it all,
and you’ve got everything
between the trees and the sky,
and when you want to
you can spread your wings
and you can fly,
you can fly, you can fly, fly away.

Big brown teapot
on this April afternoon,
I may know nothing
but I can still craft a simple tune.
I could be anywhere
but here life led me to try
the best I can do
to live without wings
so I can fly,
I can fly, I can fly, fly away.

Between the blackbird and the teapot,
my kitchen chair.
Between the silence and the door bell,
steps on the stair.
Between the lamp post and the roof top,
a link of light.
Between the drain pipe and the tool shed,
a string pulled tight.

Far green countries,
and so much for you to see.
You want to go there
to try to touch what you may yet be.
I wish you everything
between the trees and the sky,
and if you want to
you may dream the wings
so you can fly,
you can fly, you can fly, fly away.

A Fork In The Flow

A Fork In The Flow

A stir in the air, a quiver,
a fork in the flow of the river,
agitates the common state,
examines the end of equilibrium,
tests the laws of tedium,
concludes with the verdict,
life remains active even when still,
but little bends to the will.
Meanwhile, January does its worst to be January.
Outside is solidly cold,
often damp, grey, rainy, windy,
the ground unpleasantly soggy.
A pike butts its head on the ice.
An old man holds a tomato soup can,
does not care to compare its corner shop cost
with its supermarket price,
thinks himself lucky to have only a cold
and not the flu,
but feels enmeshed in a puzzle
without even a cryptic clue.
Reading the newspaper, he muses,
the wrongdoer may be caught and punished,
but the victim has no victory,
for a crime cannot be cleansed from memory.
Wake in the morning, discard your dream.
Like the pike pine for spring.
The thaw will grant the wish of every fish,
to fin further upstream.

Spring Song

Spring Song

Bird spring song, printed on the air,
pitched too fine and high for attempts at translation.
It is heard in notes not words, that is why.
Is music not speech, signals not conversation.
Still, as a playful test, I attend to one bird,
piping outside my window, in the bush behind the shed,
and try to translate its song into human tongue:
Marga-reet, Marga-reet, join me here, it seems to say.
Your singing lesson is due.
Come, quick as a gull flies after a fish.
I cannot cancel your singing lesson.
Come to me, promptly, speedily.
Converse with me, in my tubular song space.
I never ask for much, please grant my wish.
Rejoice with me in this fresh time
of nest building, chick feeding.
Marga-reet, cherish the choral way we always had.
Summer soon, long winter gone.
Spring brings our kin of feather and wing
to flutter and sing on the wind ways.
Add your notes to our knitted song screen.
Marga-reet, hear my call.
I am impatient to chirp beside your lovely form.
Universal unison, eternal essence,
I sing in the cleansed air.
Our twittering, chattering lines have no conclusion.
Winter’s great grandfather wisdom
buds in the green brain of the spring child,
born to grow to be the youth of summer,
who will mature to muse on wood and water,
clad in autumn’s leafy cloak.

Anonymous Duck

Anonymous Duck

If you’re a duck you’re out of luck,
you’re never going to be famous,
unless you’re Donald Duck,
but he’s not real,
he’s just the creation of an artist
who worked for the Walt Disney company
in the early twentieth century,
but why would you want to be,
when you have a pond or even a lake,
a canal or a river to swim around in?
To understand the purity of your pleasure
we humans cannot begin.
We can only watch you waddle through the reeds,
rest your webbed feet in the shade
with everything to have and nothing to lack.
I have no time for envy
but I would not mind being an anonymous duck,
to startle the air with the occasional quack.

Today is very May.
England wakes as a green island,
celebrates itself and its very own merry month of May.
Trees lift their leaves on their branches to the sun,
waken from winter to strengthen in its light and warmth.
And I’d like to be, no, not a platypus,
but an anonymous duck,
better than being a pilot or the driver of a truck.
A duck is never short of friends.
They waddle about in company,
not like the lone heron or the stork,
and they have a gift for cartoon comedy
when humans make them talk.

O, God, it was cold in the winter,
but now it is warm in May,
a bird’s chirp seems to say.

March Hare

March Hare

Wish I were a March hare,
out there on the moor,
sniffing spring in the air,
after the winter thaw.

My brain would be alert,
my ears would quiver.
From danger I would spurt,
run down to the river.

I’d listen to the birds,
piping in the grass,
while white clouds roam in herds,
not caring they will pass.

I’d leap through fields of sheep,
free of fox and hawk,
see old mole wake from sleep,
where humans never walk.

My ears and hind legs long,
my nose keen to scent,
the wild where I belong,
there I would make my dent.

Though I’m not a March hare,
out there on the moor,
I still breathe the spring air,
after the winter thaw.

Winter Without, Within

Winter Without, Within

Winter without my walls
made me feel winter within.
So severe the cold, the hollowness
I was alarmed to consider
this desolation sin.
Winter without is natural
but not winter within.
A carol from a choir
stung my eyes, peeled back the skin,
till I felt the thaw begin.
It re-lit my lamp,
cleansed me from winter within.

World must accept winter without,
but not winter within.
Peel back the skin,
let the thaw begin.
Relight the lamp,
to be saved from winter within.

Endure winter without, within.
Do not forget a thing.
You know what comes after.
Spring.

Spring in England

Spring in England

In the higher branches of the evergreens,
three magpies squabble with a crow.
Why and what it means only they would know.
A pigeon disturbs them,
flutters down, lands nearby.
Not bound to stay, they flap away,
below the blue spring sky.
A few starlings nod their heads,
pace this way and that,
inspect the lawn for worms,
a trail of slug or snail,
watched from behind reeds
by a crouching cat,
on this bright, contented day.
Even better will come, I can safely say.
Though that on the news is real,
what I see in my garden
is spring in England as it has always been,
birds alert, perched, in flight,
in worlds of blue and green.
And I know, when waked by love,
be it in winter or in spring,
the heart is a tender thing,
for it is then exposed, vulnerable.
The mind concludes
that before roused by love,
the heart merely functions,
is barely attended to,
but when the mind is conscious of love,
the heart is stirred, like a bird,
breathes, pines to sing.
It is then when the heart is a tender thing.