Best Moorhen Poems
Skulking between the thinning clumps
Of tattered sedge
A balding coot despondently calls,
Scratching Blackbirds scutter deeply
Into a Hawthorn hedge;
Whilst, creeping stealthily,
Gathering darkness onwardly crawls.
The blackened Moorhen washes the clinging
Soot from his feathered form,
Rising above the mirrored pond in awkward
flight.
Gathering clouds mumble softly of an
Impending storm,
When, silently menacing, inwards marches
The approaching night.
Listening intently, between murmurs upon
A breeze,
I check my step and briefly pause -
To catch a low sigh whispered from among
The sullen trees...
A last desperate plead of their lost cause.
For now billowing cumulonimbus sags
And begs to stall,
As, slowly homeward bound, I gather
About me to hastily make;
Where, circling high in rushing element,
The ragged Buzzard begins to fall...
Upon Heavens gathered Furies -
That so conspire to thunderously break!
The winter time has had its day,
Was what we all believed,
As signs of spring were everywhere.
But seems we've been deceived.
Evil April brings Arctic blast
Now more snow has arrived.
It seems winter must dominate,
And tell springtime it has to wait.
The snowdrops and the crocuses
Put on a splendid show.
Now we should have the daffodils
But they struggle to grow.
And the tulips expected soon
Are still asleep below.
It seems winter must dominate,
And tell springtime it has to wait.
Why are these seasons so confused?
There surely is a catch.
Last week the moorhen laid her eggs
Now incubates the batch.
But with the snow covering her
What chance have they to hatch?
It seems winter must dominate,
And tell springtime it has to wait.
Haibun 2017 - Me Feeding The Ducks Winter 2010/11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feeding the hungry, ducks, geese, swans, moorhen, coot, and gulls. The image depicts me in the winter of 2010. I hasten to add that to this day I’m still feeding them, and other wild birds. All so, and sadly, much to other peoples disgust, the squirrels, and rats too. And although I have not observed them, wood mice, and probably voles too are visiting the feeding areas, picking up scraps. Of the gulls observed whilst feeding the ducks are, black headed, herring, lesser black-backed, and the not so common, common gull, I must add not ever all on the same day, black-headed are present every day often in huge numbers. Health and none rainy days permitting I shall continue feeding and supporting the local wildlife, and I hope everybody that is able to, does too.
~~~
cruel winter
majestic in it’s beauty
feigning innocence
A good friend once told me that kingfishers know the secrets of the universe
But dear friend, what about this moorhen on the rivers verge?
And as I sit and wonder what my moorhen thinks
Around me dance bright thistles of pink
A river ripple rides the collected current
Long green reeds exist with no need to repent
A family of mice not ever so nice
But look at that face, too cute not to embrace
So my precious moorhen, tell me what you know
There must be more to life than gluttony and sorrow
More to life than anger, pride and lust
Tell me please, it's such a must
My sweetheart moorhen don't swim the day
While I sit here wondering my life away
Once were badgers in leafy dale,
once were rabbits and foxes too,
once were pheasants in shining copse where cuckoopint and coltsfoot grew.
Once were songbirds in privet hedges,
once were bluebells for mile upon mile,
once were dark woods cool and shading hiding squirrels and foxes guile.
Once were home fed pigs and poultry,
once were food with proper taste,
once were marls with mirrored water, but now they only hold our waste.
Once were farmers in umber meadow,
once were colliers in village pit,
once were taverns for quenching thirst where now the townie and tourist sit.
Once were fens and fields and down-lands,
once were moorhen and curlews call,
once were stewards of Gods own country, where now there is but urban sprawl.
Once were leaders of Albion's masses,
once were statesmen of unbending word,
once was a land that was fit for heroes, where now only spin and deceit are heard.
Life on the lake today, well, checking my notes i can say: Swans a pair, mallards, so many, widgeon a few, one shoveler i viewed too. Then came the geese, a long way from home, Canada in fact, so cold, Lincoln, England, much warmer, if you're a goose. Canada geese, yep named after their country, -10 C, I believe. Next on my list, coots, a good few. A bit further on, a moorhen or two. In the lake of life, there are plenty, I could name them all, but for the records, I didn’t see any. Having dealt with the fauna next the lake flora, and there in one corner some reeds. Four hours of looking, time now is talking, “You’ve done your days recording, now get yourself home for some tea. So without looking back, I’m off down the track, heading home for a snack, and a nice cup of hot tea.
winter cleans
recycles for spring
snakes awake
Black, cracked ice on a brooding fen,
Lamented calls of teal and moorhen,
Echo across frosted tundra and fell,
Accented by a single, mournful church bell.
Knitted reeds, hard bit by the frost,
Mute swan and mallard huddled and lost
In winters white world of ice and storm,
Deciduous branches rattle and form
Writhing patterns on peat bog and moor,
Itinerant rooks scavenge couch grass and tor.
Nighttime falls quickly 'neath a deep velvet haze,
Temperatures drop with the sun's weakened rays,
Earth settles down to a long winters night,
Reborn every morning in the frosted half light.
I'll look for you
in the deep, cobalt blue
of a mountain lake,
or the startled crake
of a moorhen,
flushed from its nest,
or the idle word, said in jest
over a steaming mug,
as we huddled and shrugged
off the cold and damp
round the guttering lamp
that attracted the moths
and the tales of weird Goths
that inhabited the wood
in which we stood,
as we pondered the stars
and named them as ours
in the time before now,
as my furrowed brow,
struggles to forget
that we ever met
and did all that
and, here we sat,
planning our tomorrow
with no hint of the sorrow
that I was to face,
without you, in this place,
here, where earth meets the sky
and we questioned why
it had to end, asked why lovers
can't be friends and, in the end
we instinctively knew,
we two, me and you,
that paradise had been lost,
that was the cost, of our liaison,
our raison d'être,
held hostage to fate,
and now, too late,
I cogitate on what might have been
and wonder why I only dream
in black and white?
A shoal of roach fast scatter at my shadow.
Mother moorhen toots as chick ducks in
and out of overhanging ivy.
A boating flower floats along intact
with shadow's faithful dancing follow,
on gravel, then over weed and back.
Across the stream two white hat coots.
One ferries straw between its beak
with earnest nodding paddled scoots.
Buddlea, dipping low some leafy locks
quenches from the summer heat
its purple pointed candled shocks.
Sudden rising pigeon claps with winged
applause.Creator takes all honour, surely.
Outside all man's walls and doors
no other makes such glory.