It seems to me the wind
is your friend:
soaring, tumbling,
playing with the thermals
on a still day.
Tacking, swooping,
cutting along the hedge-top,
manipulating
the gale.
Chattering, flying high,
sailing home
on a light breeze.
Building your stick nest
high in the bare branches
for it to rock and rattle
round the rookery.
You joyful bird with your
black, lustrous plumage
and your crusty beak that
stabs the ground
for leather-jackets.
You can
fill the sky with movement,
write a tune on the wires,
blacken a field with your parliament,
and fill my heart with joy as you
surge past my window in your thousands
at dawn
on a cold Winter's morning.
Tuesday 26 August 2008
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7 comments:
wonderful descriptions,,,
Thanks.c.g.p.
You have a good eye for detail, grassweaver.
We are fortunate in having some very vociferous (in the Spring)rookeries, heronries and cormorantries (if there is such a word) near here by the river Trent.
I like the motion of the words and lines here - it feets the subject.
feets = fits
s.w. if there isn't a word cormorantries before - there is now!
Thanks Dave - think feets sounds better really (a bit foreign accent-ish)
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