POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for MARCH

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UNSEASONAL

Unseasonal the warmth :
This March two seasons coalesce :
Daffodil with bluebell,
Sallow, hazel, primrose, cowslip,
Anemone and celandine.

Everywhere there’s bloom and leaf,
High skies invite an early frost
But pairing birds are up to sing.

A sudden wind brings flurried snow,
Strips petals from the blackthorn hedge —
An unexpected mingling :
Confetti for the Spring.

ANOTHER SPRING SONG

This Winter's broken, cold winds cease
now mocking blackthorn mimics snow
and in young sun a tame cat prowls
attracted by grey mouse's song.

The hares have gone, their last dance done;
the rookery so full of noise —
bright celandines shine from each verge
a quiet greenness fills the land.

New leaves and flowers, more birds in pairs,
fresh signs of Spring are everywhere,
but for these dunnocks in this hedge
the cuckoo calls through dooms of love.

BLACKTHORN Our blackthorn has been wonderful this year, each hedge I passed seemed blanketed in snow. The trees, like white sails, billowed over lanes and verges… and the celandines’ bright show. A gusting wind sprang up to shake the hedge, bending the trees to rock them to and fro, releasing blossom in a blizzard fall, surprising horse and rider just below. As drifts of snow-white petals filled the lane the parting clouds revealed a watery sun; although the signs of Spring were in the air, the cold wind warned that Winter’s not yet done…. Now, seasons on, the hedge bears blue-black sloes, As bitter as that wind from long ago.
THE LAST FIELD Foxes can't be bothered searching this land, passers-by would never praise the view; in all the years, nothing here has happened, those visiting this field are very few. There's no clear stream hiding rare brook lampreys or muddy pond where crested newts may grow; no protected flora ever grew here — even common bluebells never show. No ancient oaks — rubbing posts for cattle — a place to safely harbour local bats; listed birds like nightjars never nest here, you'll never see a rabbit or a rat. Men in suits with plans arrived this morning, they scheme to join my village to your town and take away this last green space between us — our countryside gone...blown like thistledown.
The Rooks Have Returned - Alexei Savresov (1830 - 1897) ROOKS Each evening they appear at dusk in ones and twos — return from distant foraging. Flapping untidy wings in laboured flight, they circle, gathering as a cawing group, heading for their roost in Hazelwood. Today, nest building in the tallest trees that screen the wood. Feathers, flickering with a purple sheen, birds stalk through the plough gathering stems of autumn straw, twigs snapped from skeleton hedge — their cries lost to a bitter wind. Toing and froing, this noisy congregation battles swift gusts, land unsteadily in topmost branches. Slowly, under a cold March sun, old architecture is refreshed, new nests built — airy cradles to rock this Springtime’s young. A single rook is a crow; a group of crows are rooks… (An old country saying).
FOOTPRINTS She’d been about the neighbourhood for days, watchful and still, always keeping her distance. We wondered if, perhaps, she was a stray — she was shy, not seeking an audience — and trotted out of sight if we got near. Then the weather changed, March becoming cool, one evening, at dusk, it began to snow... She was in our garden! I could see her veer from shadows under trees beyond the pool, towards the light of kitchen door. She tiptoed through the dusting of snow. I watched through the pane. She reached the door, looked up, saw me, meowed. The look of pleading in her eyes made plain her need – determined to get in somehow. When I opened the door she rushed inside, ignored our sleeping cat, snug in her bed, to find and finish off Queenie’s meal. This timid cat became undignified — ravenous, she cried, desperate to be fed — would shelter and a meal end her ordeal? After more food, she trotted to the door, looked up, meowed, and waited to go out. “She wants to leave – she can’t eat any more!” “Is she safe in such cold, I have my doubts!” Pleading to leave, we had to let her go into the pitch dark and bitter cold. As soon as she had gone, I changed my mind… Tracing her little footprints in the snow I wondered what drove her on, made her bold, and hoped that I was not too far behind. I followed her down along the sideway where, sheltered by the fence, snow petered out. To have lost her tracks filled me with dismay — that she’d come this way, there was no doubt. At the path’s end, something began to stir where our wheelbarrow leant against the wall. Sheltered by the barrow, a box of sacking, and from the sacking came a caterwaul — maybe she’s in pain and so, was hiding… I hurried on, convinced it must be her. By torchlight, I could see the little cat, in that box of sacks, on a makeshift bed. She didn’t move as I approached, stayed flat and still as I reached in to stroke her head. I gently smoothed the fur along her back and as I did she purred, nuzzled my hand. It was a sign of friendship and of trust, helping to keep her rescue right on track. Lifting cat and sack slowly, as if planned — to get her home she had to stay unfussed. The family were waiting to let us in, under the breakfast bar in the kitchen, a box with a towel prepared as a bed… Queenie rubbed noses and licked the cat’s head. The cat wandered round, checking whether to stay, found the fresh water and her bowl of food. Then, into her box, settled and comfy, with little cat asleep, the day concludes… Next I’m awake! – Can’t be morning, surely? But here is our youngest, with a lot to say: “The cat’s in her box. Licking her kittens, and I got bickies from the tin in the kitchen!”



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