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Sean Martin-Byrne Poem
Ever flying, never ceasing, ever soaring, speed increasing,
Two sharp scythes by your side,
Leaving land behind
Journeying over land and sea,
Flying high, flying free,
Super speed, velocity,
Hawking prey incredibly.
In the air you make a rift,
With your pointed scythe-like wings
Ever moving sinuously swift,
In the air you are the king.
In your flocks at dusk you're screaming,
Rapidly whirling, whooshing, streaming,
To fly is your life's only meaning,
Swiftly whooshing, whirling, screaming.
By Sean Martin-Byrne
Copyright © Sean Martin-Byrne | Year Posted 2017
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Sean Martin-Byrne Poem
As he wears his golden crown
He forages frantically.
The goldcrest alights, he touches down.
He wears his crown magnitoquently.
"Fee hee hee" he chirps rapidly
A spider, the goldcrest consumed;
From its web he had plucked it away.
His excited search for food then resumed,
He must eat to survive another day.
The diminutive bird hopped from bough to bough
In search for food he scoured the tree.
His search of the tree was thorough
and fruitful;he had enough to eat.
"Fee hee hee" he sang satisfied
Next, the bird went to the forest floor.
Surrounded by altitudinous conifers,
He noticed on the ground were insects galore
which he closely monitored.
The beetles and earwigs and ants and lice
were building and crawling and swarming.
The goldcrest once and twice and thrice
swallowed an ant with no warning.
"Fee hee hee" no more did he hunger;
His body was warming
"Fee hee hee" he sang from the tree
as he sat on a prominent perch.
So much the little bird could see
from the top of the high-reaching larch.
As dusk fell, he remained on the plant;
He listened to the woodpigeons croon.
The very next day he would feast on more ants
........He drifted off into a sloom
By Sean Martin-Byrne
Copyright © Sean Martin-Byrne | Year Posted 2017
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Sean Martin-Byrne Poem
At cockcrow, I head down to the river, forsaking my little log cabin situated in the dense forest till dusk, which was strongly built by my endemic hands. I have no compulsion for rods and hooks, no bait. I have my ways. I be sincerely unwanted at the riverside. Others be fearful of my gruff, contemptible guise and demeanour. Fearful that I'd snipe their catch or peck their lunch. Incomprehensible! Hence, I descend the forested hill on which I dwell in the purpose of pilfering the village of food.
I plead the inhabitants for at least a bantam amount of vittles but it is nearabout in vain. All individuals barring an altruistic gardener be scornful towards me. He understands my plight as well as harking what myself alleges. He feeds me his residual edibles. It's his generosity that keeps me alive.
When I be passing the villagers shun me and ensconce me from their young'uns. When I be nigh to them I be able to hear mutterings under breath:
"Undesirable,"
"Accursed tramp,"
and an occasional"Eavesdropper!"
That's what they entitle me but I possess a name. I did not merely crawl up out of the loam and come into existence. I did not start off as an abominable creature spawned on the riverbed (some consider I presently be just that). I be correctly known as Grey, I be named Heron Grey.
By Sean Martin-Byrne
Copyright © Sean Martin-Byrne | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Sean Martin-Byrne Poem
A contemptuous shimmer in his eye.
His body coils along the trunk.
An empty stomach fuelled only by anger.
Looming ominously from the sky.
He hangs from the branch,
lolling, staring, waiting.
Waiting for a victim
to constrict and inflict.
He stares.
He waits.
He starves.
Too late?
No. Not today.
Copyright © Sean Martin-Byrne | Year Posted 2017
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