The wild whoops and daring dives not of the solo violin,

But the rolling tumbling, death defying  lapwings. 

The woodwind section, a haunting of curlew,

their querulous ascent and curdling decline, 

 a wild race of  whistling oystercatchers,     

the redshank that pipes and dips from the wall.  

The choir, an alchemy  of plaintive plover,

banking  gold and white and back to gold again,  

 the skylarks locked in their trilling elevators

and the paragliding squeaking of pipits,

the brass is the honking  pairs of greylag  geese on morning  patrol,

percussion, the  humming, thrumming, drumming of roller coaster snipe. 

All this, while wheatears, that slate and primrose spring  

take silent  ownership  of cup and ring.

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A hesitant dawn, you silence the bells 

And change the scene

with that touch of myth   

that turns every  living thing to ice.

Flakes bristle from every twig,

spicules sparkle like Christmas,

then detach and sink,

swinging through a sunlit sea. 

The trees, decked like brides,

Mock hungry deer with confetti

No celebration here as they clash  

And paw the snow in  their frostration.

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it clung, sticky fingered,

to an impossible beam

under a palm leaf thatch. 

and in freeze frame mime,

advanced along a leftwards flank,  

then turned, paused, and

Ignoring the claws,

sprung,

seized,  

crunched,

 grinned

and milked the applause .

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And birds have ceased to call  

When nighthawks glide through misty glades   

And fiery Mars comes up from shades

When fireflies blink and crickets wheeze.

and deer cough deep and owls sneeze  

The sky spreads its carpet of myth

Up ending Orion,

while I, sitting on a stone,

move the branch into the glow and wait   

‘til tousle haired, he brings dazed frogs, which,

steamed with greens, and pungent spice,  

we serve on leaves with sticky rice

and eat with bamboo shots.  .

Nyok!

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the sky deeper.  

Steam rises from the falls,

turns grass stems to prayer flags,

trees into wedding gowns. 

The windows of the big house,

shine gold and

Thomas Payne’s excellent bridge

burns like a biscuit     

against moors of palest pink

Crystal deep,

sparkling deer

join cosy sheep

In a warm circuit of silage,

fermenting an uneasy friendship 

in cloven harmony of hunger.

Flashing red, a woodpicker  

pecks at freezing bark

while Titmice forage,  

out of habit, more than hope,

Spying a discarded raft, I climb aboard

and launch myself down the slope until, 

disgorged in a tumble of laughter,   

I get the drift, use my hands,   

like rockets on a space module

to gain stability but no direction.  

A stranger eyes me by the cattle grid,  

‘I’ve only come for my grandson.’  

I smile like sheep in silage. 

And resolve to buy a sledge.

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and acts out its dramas on a larger stage. 

We awoke to the expectant dawn, ate

by the long shadows of a cowering sun,   

while an army of dark clouds decamped  

despatched their batallions up the valley,   

until the summits were shrouded and green slope,

grey crag grew sombre with dread.       

Then a relentless rain dropped like net curtains,

drawn across the windows of the mind. 

Sorrow flowed down the face of the fell,

merged with the grumbling river and the angry   

tumbling flood took it all back to the sea. .

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The white dog froze, one paw raised.

The green boat turned slowly,

The forest echoed to splash of his oars,

Our smoke cast a mist over the water.

He rose from the lake with a grin;

a belly roll above battle fatigues,

hung out by the fire.

I had no beer, no Finnish. 

‘Fish not good; one so big’,

 he spread his arms.

Berry, he counted fingers;

one, two, three week, maybe.

There was a box tied round the dogs neck

Global positioning system.

She find moosa, I find her with phone. See!

I shoot moosa. Bang!

Next month, a hundred migrant workers from Thailand will arrive to pick the berries.

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At dawn, the lake reflects

Rows of  pencils,

Serried green arrows

That dimple the clouds

Then a beaver

Draws a line

Across the tranquil surface

Of the mind

And the aspen trembles

To the crash of elk,

The cry of the raven

And the distant rumble of war.

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A column of grey four by fours

Barbour and tweed in a huddle,  

Sausage and eggs and plus fours,

Top dogs! And so eager to show off   

Their bright eyes, the shine on their coats. 

The day may be cold and depressing,  

Their senses, wag-tailed and wet-nosed. 

The crack of a discharging shotgun,

The toss of  the heather-bound lure,

The straining of haunches, the release of the leash

If he finds it in time, he will score. 

A mobile olfactory sensor 

Scanning shark-like first this way, then that  

For a bean bag clad in green plastic

and the scent of the sweat of a hand.    

Buttoned up and tense with frustration,

She leans out above the dark lake,

And with vowels and gesticulation, 

She strains to correct his mistake.

A panic, a blank of confusion     

The reward, mislaid or ignored,

lies beneath the dull red rhododendron, 

Submerged, like her hopes of reward. 

And here where the bracken grows darker,

In the shade where the rain never falls,

The omega wins, not the alpha.

He’ll not think; he’ll just do as he’s told.   

 …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …  …

And when I asked my friend,

What drew him late to such pursuits,

he stroked a thoughtful chin..

‘It’s only to amuse,  I go on shoots,

And to compete.  I guess you’d say

I’m a dogless wonder; all bite and no bark!

                                                      The Bollard of Edensor

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across the secrets

of the ghyll,

the pond whispers,

trees tap, rocks -

the very earth

turns darker still

and sense is flooded

with despair. 

And after the rain,   

a drowsy peace,    

the melancholy air

warms, thickens,

grows darker, greener.

Buds burst,

leaves stretch,

reach out

to fill the gaps.  

Close your eyes,

rest, listen, feel  

how soft lamentations

of blackbirds

heal the wound,

and when resonance

reminiscence yields,

anguish fades,

loss is less,

and hope flickers,

takes wing,

wagtails dance

and gleeful swallows

sweep the air,  

while the cob glides

the darker water

and the pen lies sleeping

on her raft.

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