Herry Christmas, AI, from some of the reddest redbreasts I’ve ever seen.
Never Three on a Card
Every Christmas, I get a warm glow From a handful of cards with the robins’ hello – They’re sometimes alone, and they’re sometimes a pair, But a third one is nowhere – cos as we all know A flock of the robins is strictly no-go. But what is this latest the postladies bear ? One robin, two robins, three robins…? Whoa…! But how can the senders so brazenly dare ?, Depicting the moment before the first blow – As the beak and the claw will leave no love to spare, As they battle to mate and to overthrow. But no ! They swear they’ve taken care To only show what’s really there. In Winter, it seems, the robins bestow A happier temper, content to share – For outside of breeding, they treat all fair, And frolic together in goodwill and snow.
The dragons flew to the village When the glaciers receeded. Before the humans came to found the village In the hills They all moved up the valley As the valley slowly heated – A conflict scratched by ancient claws And knapped by stone-age skills.
The dragons lived on cliff-tops, Where they found the up-draughts bracing, And yet up here upon the fells, the scarp Was ev’ry bit as steep The humans sought the uplands For protection and for grazing, With their wooded winding valleys And their moorlands full of sheep.
But the dragons had a taste for mutton, Raiding flocks and rustling folds – While the humans found the lizards rich, And slow when on their shanks. So they hunted ev’ry dragon That came sniffing round their barren holds, And they feasted on their breastmeat And they tanned their wings and flanks.
But down in the valley woodlands, Where the dragons couldn’t grace, So the tribes would coppice trees for fuel, As soon as the saplings bend. But the deer were a constant nuisance As they trampled through the place, And they nibbled the shoots at liberty, Refusing to be penned.
But Evolution played her hand, Ten thousand years or more, As she favoured drakes who favoured deer, Whose does were scarce in dearth. And the humans were quite happy If they thinned the herds a score, And all stayed-away from pastures And gave folks a wider berth.
So into the flightless forests they came, Where the trees would crowd the sky, And they stalked the stags upon all-fours, Or scampered up a tree. And their back legs grew more sturdy With a pouncing, kicking thigh, And their wings were less-times called-upon Beneath the canopy.
Yes, they still would glide above the valley, Though they rarely soared, As they rode upon the thermals And they roosted on the scarp. Their flaplings, once they’d left the nest Would gather in a horde, And would chase the rodents round the barns To keep their talons sharp.
The farmers even reckoned They had not the strength to leave, Now their flying was more like that of a hen Than of a lark. Good enough to get them airborne, Good enough to catch the breeze, But no good for migrating Once the days were getting dark.
Neither side were loners, In their small communities, As they looked-after their own, And yet would not harass the strays. And they’d sometimes come-together In those opportunities For the curious on both sides To regard their neighbours’ ways.
So by the Middle Ages, They had reached a careful dance, Where the humans let them hunt for rats and deer, By nature’s law. And yes, the windows in the church Showed George’s famous stance, Yet those self-same beasts proved lucrative When pilgrims watched in awe.
Land first drifted this far North In the Late Devoniun And life had caught a ride as well, Beneath the midnight sun. In hothouse times, the land was free Of frigid glacial scars, And life was thriving in the dark Beneath the midday stars. And the jungles circled round the top Right through the Pliocene – When the brownest bear was polar, And the Northern land was green. In a million years from now, they’ll marvel how Our current life clings on – But there we are, continuous, Since the Late Devonion.
A bird fell down the flue last month, And panicked round the sitting room – Raising a squawk and spraying the soot, Till shooed-away with a gentle broom. Why did we have a chimney, anyway ? We never light it ! A useless shaft ! Indeed, where was the bundle of rags We’d stuffed-up the hole to stop the draught ? Time to give it a final sweep, And check it for cracks, and bring in a brickie. An open fire may be romantic, But getting the logs is increasingly tricky. And let’s get a platform placed in the pot, up top, To hold their twigs, And let their charcoal wings replace the smoke Of their rooftop digs.
A sunfish may look like a sun, And a starfish like a star – But both are fake, for the only one that’s real – The starriest fish by far – Is not some Milky Way-long eel, But Cetus – the stellar monster gar – He’s bigger than Cancer, older than Pisces, Swimming the span of the sky high seas.
We’ve ringed the noses of our bulls Since the days of ancient Sumer, And blinged their ears with tagging tools Since the reign of George the Third. And sheep we’ve daubed with bright and dark Since Beau Peep was in bloomers, And likewise branding’s left its mark Since pharaohs watched the herd.
And long before the Roman Legion, Pigeons wore a metal tumour Round their ankles, through the season, As they carried vital word. And falcons showed their noble’s farms – And scientists confirmed the rumour Of migration, through the charms They fitted to each bird.
One deer, two deers, That’s how or should be – Mixing with the fishes and the sheeps. Red deers, roe deers, Two-by-two, or sometimes three, If fallows really are at home for keeps. Muntjacs and sikas, Followed fallows over here, And water deers are plurals now, it’s true. For us native speakers, We won’t raise a pedant’s tear If all of them get ess – and mooses too !
She has the memory of a goldfish, In that she remembers pretty well. She is a frog in a warming dish That knows it is no place to dwell. And she’s a giraffe who loves shut-eye, An ostrich with her head held high, A colourblind bull when the red rags fly, And an old wife with new tales to tell.
There ! A steak of white ! Let’s see…that’s one. Now was it large, or small, or green-veined ? Oh, what fun ! And there ! A brown of some sort – Could be meadow, heath, or speckled wood – But it’s clearly brown, I’d say, If that’s much good… A flash of red ! An admiral ? A tortoiseshell ? What’s going on ? Let’s take a closer look, But no, it’s gone… Wait, was that one the same That I tallied over there, As it circles round the garden ? That’s not fair !
Spiders have eight, and box-jellies twenty-four, Scallops have hundreds, and dragonflies thousands, And digital cameras even more ! But vertebrates make do with two, Plus the odd ocelli peeping-through – But only a couple of retinas – A pair of light-bucket dishes – Well, except for a few strange fishes ! And I don’t mean the four-eyed anableps, Who see through both the water and air, And focus the light through diff’rent steps But onto the same old patch of cells, That parallels the ones we chordates share. No, I mean the brownsnout spookfish – They may not look as swish as barreleyes, Until we realise that here may be The ancestor of a whole new tree Of multi-looking vertebrates to arise – That one day may just populate The future Earth with their future eyes.
Rhyming Couplets 