Archive for March, 2012


Pied Flycatcher


A sunlit pool, a space to dart

From off a branch the black and white

As clean as rapid’s foam and night:

A dancer pirouetting up


And back to bathe and preen and spy

Then off again to spin and snap

With flicking wings and sniper’s sight

A moment whirling in sunlight.


The spiral movements of its life,

From Senegal to ancient oaks,

Its call repeats, its circle turns,

Its world in orbit round the branch


Where sun meets black and woodland white:

A helix twist of vaulted flight.




Wren Days


A bursting song, vivacious fire,

Which spreads the word of ancient woods.

Proclaims itself a spirit free,

Declares itself a truth to fear.


From caves and webs across the floor,

From moorland crags and river banks,

Between the oak and sycamore,

A god’s crescendo echoed on.


Through bloodied winter, huddled fast,

A totem crucified in frost,

And carried dripping through the snows:

The tiny flecks of red on white.


The wren: from deity to death

Is energy, is life, is song.