Tuesday, 26 August 2008


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,
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.


Crafty Green Poet said...

wonderful descriptions,,,

The Weaver of Grass said...


The Solitary Walker said...

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.

Dave said...

I like the motion of the words and lines here - it feets the subject.

Dave said...

feets = fits

The Weaver of Grass said...

s.w. if there isn't a word cormorantries before - there is now!

The Weaver of Grass said...

Thanks Dave - think feets sounds better really (a bit foreign accent-ish)