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Loads of ripe cherries
High in the tree
Out of reach of human hands
But not from beaks you see.
Blackbirds, pigeons and magpies
Each have their fill
Of sweet red cherries
They have the skill,
Of flying high above me
Pecking at the fruit
Eating all the ripe ones
In their aerial persuit.
Sweet red cherries
Small and round and neat.
I go without
And the birds get a treat!
Your wheel eyes stare
Soft feathers steady your body,
Feet reach forward
Toes and talons stretched
You swoop
Then up
Pushing down strong wingbeats
A small mammal caught,
Food for yourself or your fledglings.
Soft you whisper across the darkening landscape,
Home to the old barn.
Old pine tree, gnarled and twisted,
cracked and crumbling,
roots deep in the ground.
Wind rises, pushes against the pine
boughs flying, bent back
air soughing through you limbs
great gusts destroy you.
Old pine, gone.
On my kitchen roof
Bouncing around,
Pesky magpies and pigeons.
I like them,
Don’t get me wrong,
But just as I’m about to
Pour a coffee
THUD patter patter,
Or get the bread out of the oven…
THUD patter patter
Delicately lining up some icing
THUD! Patter…. Patter!
Do you have to?
You make me jump…
THUD!
I see your blue smile
Sad and sorry
Waiting to leave,
Waiting for a second
Before you go.
Before the smile fades
And you start to cry
Seeing nothing but tears.
At least you had a smile
Once….
That look says
Spider,
I see you,
There is no escape,
I will watch you
And when you are not looking,
I will pounce.
But now
I will just stare
My two big eyes
Against your eight.
I smell your hand hooman
It sniffs of coffee and paint
Of lavender and cut grass.
It smells of sausages and chips
Salt and vinegar.
Your hooman hand is warm
And soft.
Your hooman hand gives me
Food and water.
It strokes my belly
My nose and head.
You are my hooman
And I own you!
ello, ow art yow?
I’m reet tired duck.
Why’s that my dear Mon?
Been down’t farm t’feed heffers
Check t’ ducks ‘n’ chuckhens
Made some chayse,
Layd a hedge
Milked t’owd goat
Brought in’t corn,
Flailed t’ barley
walked ower t’ orchard
Brung sum coookin apples owm.
Made a napple pye fer tea.
Then strode down tut pub
fer a pint of scrumpy cyder.
Drank tow much
Cayme owm legliss
Fell ower.
Slept in’t oss trough.
But I’m fine.
As June turns into July
I see a bird rise up to fly
I see a cloud floating past
and a flag upon a mast.
I see buttered scones
and currant buns,
Ice cream cones
and happy mums,
dozing cats all curled, asleep
The carp from its pond does peek
People rest and take their ease.
Buzzy are the drones of bees.
Now that summers at its height
Feel the Sun in its might.
Writing the summerhouse,
In the baking heat,
Trying to relax and stretch,
On a hot seat.
No double glazed windows
No insulation to keep us cool.
Only the doors to open
See the little pool.
The steam is rising from my head,
My feet feel like lead.
Hot and humid
Wringing wet
Skin is dripping
With sweat.
Then the radio blared out
34 degrees at Heathrow
Cold, cool, frozen, water, shivering, teeth chattering….none of these are here right now.
If I had got ice or ice cream I would eat it like snow.
Thats what I want, you know.
Darkening sky and rising breeze,
Thunder rumbles overhead
Drops of water trickle down
Now heat and wind have fled.
A streak of lightening,
A whip of lightening Streaks the air
Then the pub returns a blare
Of House, rap, and garage music.
It’s not the heat that drives me in.
But the beat that does my head in!
Mallaband-Brown