A poem for the summer solstice

IMG_0717

 

Godwit Sightings

 

In north Devon

a pantheon of godwits

a prayer of godwits

an omniscience of godwits

pattered about in the brown mud.

 

They floated rather,

in that drifty way they have.

Beautiful, light godwits

trotting about on mudflats.

 

 

Poem and photo by Rose Cook

Advertisements

Post a Poem a Day for 5 days: Love and the Flight of Birds

IMG_8339

For the next day of the Post a Poem a Day for 5 days Challenge here is ‘Love and the Flight of Birds’ which is in my poetry collection Taking Flight (Oversteps Books, 2009) and I nominate Shawna Lemay to post one of her poems every day for 5 days and tag someone new each day.

 

Love and The Flight of Birds


Just lately I find myself
falling in love
with birds.

Is it their different flight,
their glide, slow soar,
the double bounce and hurry-up
over the tree,
their fragile legs,
enviable wings –
is it about longing?
But then, love is always about longing.

When they visit,
perch first in one tree or another,
I recognise them from their shapes
as lovers do, feel gratitude
that they come to me.

I break bread, tip seed
for these creatures of shattered air,
glossed instinct,
bones light as leaves,
wonders to gaze on,
fall
then fly again.

 

 

poem and photo Rose Cook

On Seeing and Loving

IMG_1686

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard     –     Mary Oliver

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes – when he lifts their soft lids –
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder –
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear –

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminium
ladder of his scream –
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

photo Rose Cook