Brackish lichen forms a raft upon the pond,
a low haze floats like a moored airship.
Small frogs chirrup sotto-voce
as if they were
dreaming sparrows.
Water birds dabble in their sleep.
Soon the sun
will dash across a drop of dew
bursting dams of light.
A fisherman in his truck
drinks his coffee,
rubs his eyes and smacks his lips.
He grabs rod and tackle,
hopes fat fish are lazily
rising.
Feathers shake off waterlogged shadows,
wings slap the groggy face of the pond,
ripples splash up
to rinse the air.
Coots and Plover call
until the water
awakes.
Fog over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
colds ears muffled by the dank air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary.
The ocean is close
you can feel the tidal pull of it
the immensity of it,
even through the thick haze
it seems to tug at my small boat.
I hear now, the distant screaking
of coastal gulls.
Trawling fingers in the dark water
mellifluent coils pluck and pull.
Later, sitting in the cabin
I wonder why I did not push
further out from the estuary
advancing towards
the deep sound of the breakers.
I yawn, sup some hot tea from a mug,
smile,
comfortable,
that's the reason -
way too comfortable.
The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.
This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleam
in ghostly drifts.
The dewy daylight arrives
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to dry damp wings.
A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Mallards and Coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.
The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers
the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss,
for the margin has hidden his aim
and it always will
in such magic moments.
THERE is a lake somewhere
'midst pollution, coots & comorants thrive
Jewel in our overflowing sewage
Creation endures Curse of (ANC, Adam &) Eve
NoTE:
ANC is the ruling party & government majority in South Africa since the elections of 1994. With hardly a basic maintenance program anywhere, every hospital, school, office, utilities, and national treasure left THE ANC by its predecessor (NP, nationalist party) is an eyesore, tragedy, or will soon be).
coal clung crocodiles
hide and seek of crows and coots ---
blind butterfly bats
05 April 2023
Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
My ears are muffled
in the dawn mizzle.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit, as I do.
A person could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze might take a soul
or lose a body
then it would be caught between two worlds.
Later sitting on the cabin porch,
mind wondering why
the skiff did not head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,
but the answer is clear;
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.
Be it a tiny butterfly flutters near wild flowers
Or big fat flying foxes hanging off the lofty trees
Be it a family of bulbuls relishing showers
Or a mischievous monkey devours fruits, smiling with glee
Be it a single purple heron awaiting the dawn
Or the nonchalant coots floating in the tranquil pool
Be it a herd of deer inhabits the engrossing lawn
Or the picturesque peahens thrash out to frame novel rules
Migrant birds' air trails while enduring perilous journey
Gymnastics of endemic egrets in the evening sky
Wonderful wild flowers glisten amidst the shrubs ferny
And the serene water birds in lake, the feast for the eyes
Intermingled with animals out there in forest wild
Every little birds and mammals make our earth revive
Mar -03-2022
Nature comes to my rescue, and yours. I'm certain
When trash and plastics fly and float on land
Across this township called Newtown, a curtain
Of pollution from burning what trash workers will rake
I look toward the neglected lake, an abused water habitat
Where sewage runs to, along with other waste
Ibis abound; I spoke of coots and comorants
But when my spirits were really down
I spied two playful herons, white for the most part
Diving to and away from each other, strong winds no hindrance!
(in the Eastern Cape, perhaps a joy, their inspiration)
And I thanked Creation for keeping its Spirit, Beauty,
And inspiration for me: Large herons, playful, in adversity
I
At Patuxent Refuge
Maryland's Fish & Wildlife Center
CASH LAKE boasted a few
Comorants
And more Ospreys
II
Across the Komani-Queenstown Route
We have our South African waterways
A string of tiny lakes and pools
Here Coots and Comorants coexist
In an otherwise tree-less place
III
On my walk to church, I spied three
On the only tree near the water
Less than seven meters tall
Bedecked with more fowl than I saw
At first, only the three at highest
My heart leaped as I spied them all
Three times three plus one:
Ten Comorants with Commandments
Coots sleepily dabble
in a smudge of water.
Wisp-wings waft
on a surface mist.
Dipping ducks,
necks tucked into the half-light.
watch muddy shadows dive
under mounds of stalky flotsam.
Vista’s gather to paint
their levees of light.
A slight uplift opens
in a drape of sky.
Dawn emerges through reflection,
through liquid eyes,
a looking-glass sun
swims deep-up from above.
A wizard, a witch and a wand went that way.
But the Ebony Cat and the Pumpkin decided to stay.
They had heard about the antics of a bumpkin, tragic.
They knew one thing, these three had black magic.
A scarecrow gave them a tip of the day.
He told them of a corn maize where they could play.
The wizard, witch, and the wand promptly came back.
They picked up the pumpkin and the black cat.
She will be my familiar, the witch cackled with a groan.
Ebony Cat was terrified; she was afraid of this ugly old crone.
Pumpkin decided to show some magic of his own.
He rolled toward the gate, and got out his cell phone.
He called a warlock to come and secure the old witch.
It was a friend of his father’s, and the guy had a twitch.
These two crazy old coots both cast a spell.
Which promptly put them both into a deep dark well.
The witch was the first to get out, and she bewitched the cat.
Transmogrifying her into a beautiful but tiny vampire bat.
The warlock was on her tail, and changed the spell into turquoise blue.
So the bat became a cat and the pumpkin did too.
Stephen Hercules Shaw
Much loved, much missed
Born the same year as you.
I rest on the bench
your mother bought,
your brother bought,
your friends bought,
to remember
and slowly forget.
The ducks half swim, half skate
Over the half-frozen half-winter lake
as I, half blind, half lame, half finished
watch ripples climb tree trunks,
legs crossed in reflection.
My shadow hat floats on the surface
as the wind changes.
I hope for the heron but hear coots.
It's cold but not cold enough.
Each bench has a name and two dates
One has the scraped initials of sometime lovers
4ever.
Another has fresh flowers and a card
"To Pop, Happy Christmas."
As I heave myself up
a changed woman hurries past with a small annoyed dog
and I wonder
whether she thinks
I left the card
or stole a white carnation.
The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.
This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleams
its first ghostly drifts.
The dewy day is ushered outwards,
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to temper damp wings.
A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Anhinga and coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.
The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers
the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss
for the margin has hidden his aim
amid glittering shadows.
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.
Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
Too early to tell
if any birds are awake
besides, my ears are muffled in the wet air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit.
I could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze would eat my soul
and I would be caught between two worlds.
Leaning over the gunnels
a Sea Bass curiously nuzzles
my trawling fingers.
The languid coils of water,
the fish and this blanket of mist
are all that matter now;
later when I sit by the cabin porch
maybe I’ll wonder why
I didn’t head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,
but I know the answer:
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.
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