February, when the end of Winter Greets the first of the start of Spring – And what better time for the ravens to be mating, For these early birds to be doing their thing ? Valentine ravens, tender and dear – They’re mating-for-life for year after year.
Coming out of the edges of the wilderness, From the Northern moors to the middle-class downs – Now nobody persecutes their loving anymore, So they do it in the open and they do it in the towns. Valentine ravens, cawing their love – A far better symbol than a bear-cub or a dove.
Big and brash and loud – so loud ! All whooping, splashing, strutting proud, And never just the one – but with a crowd ! Filling cities, wrecking peace – Beware, my goslings, Canada-bred geese !
And yet, they’re clearly here to stay Through wet and winter, come what may, When many native birds have flown away. They’re down to earth and on the rise, Their flying-Vs patrolling cloudy skies.
The parents grub and labour much While taking turns to mind their clutch, And grazing grass that locals will not touch. Gregarious by flock and gaggle, Proudly waddling with their native waggle.
They are our future, anyhow – Americans, yet British now, As British as a plum or Friesian cow. Though black and brown of feather, true, Their spirit sports the red, the white, and blue.
Cats crop up in poetry Like they do in neighbours’ kitchens, But when it’s time for serious, They’re nowhere near to pitch in. They haven’t time for heavy metaphor Or mopey musing – And earnest stream-of-consciousness Will send them straight to snoozing. But crack a smile and shake some wit, Or balladeer some derring-do, And lapping up the limericks, Here comes the kitty-crew: Pepperpot and Sootikin, The tyger tyger in the hat, Macavity and Pangur Ban, The owl-loving pussycat, In nurseries and nightclubs, In the scary and absurd, We’re sure to stumble over them Wherever words are purred.
Poison and venom – the diff’rence between them Is pedantry. Biologists may take exception, But only they should. Most of the rest of us navigate life Quite pleasantly With a definition that’s still close-enough To be good.
They’re here all year are the robins, The robins on their rounds, Out delivering their song. But we barely see all the robins, We barely hear their sounds When they’re lost within the throng. But on-come the Winter and on-come the cold, And out-go the fairweather flocks – But the robins are patient, the robins are bold, As bright as the frost and as red as the fox. With a whistle they come, And they sing out the season And snow cannot stop them from spreading their cheer. They sing to each other, They sing for no reason, But we only hear them at this time of year.
They’re here all year are the robins, The robins on their rounds, Out delivering their post. We little think of the robins, Or braving rain and hounds, Till we need of them the most – Then on-comes the Winter and on-comes the cold And on-goes the jumpers and socks, And we need them to bring us the red and the gold With the cards and the parcels they push through our box. With a whistle they come, And they bring us the season, And snow cannot stop them from winging it here. They come when it’s sunny, They come when it’s freezing, But we only see them at this time of year.
As I’ve discussed in another poem, robins are territorial and violent birds. However, they’re also a great source of pleasure to humans. So much so that Victorian postmen with their red waistcoats were nicknamed robin redbreasts and soon Christmas cards were featuring them in both human and allegorical avian form.
And when I suggest that the robins ‘sing for no reason’, I am fully aware of the many uses that their song serves, but there is increasing evidence that occassionally birds really might just sing for the fun of it.
Koala bears in woolly hats, Emus strutting in the snow Spruces march across the Outback – Let it go, Oz, let it go… I know you’re mostly immigrants From colder, Northern climes, But not all cult’ral heritage Will work in modern times. Ditch the chimney for a combi, Lose the furry robes and gloves, Let the gum replace the holly, Let the budgies play the doves. Embrace your new contrariness, Your world turned upside down – This Winter masquerade is not The only game in town. Santa chilling by the barbie, Kangaroos to haul the sleigh, Redback’s guarding Baby Jesus – Season’s greetings, and g’day.
Fish are r-selectors, They spew their eggs upon the deep. On the current, on the hope That a few of them will seep their way to adulthood, Playing the odds and making good.
A few, though, are protectors – Mouth-brooders, seahorses, Their eggs in an extra envelope. But once they’re born, of course, they’re on their own – Even in a shoal, they swim alone.
But sharks are k-selectors, Giving birth to one or two – Yet then they leave their pups to cope. So fish are absent parents, true, but don’t condemn – I guess the numbers show it works for them.
The Watcher – Tribute to Edward Hopper by David Wickline
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Shhh…let’s lie low here for a while And let our camouflage do its thing – Let’s watch the daily rank-and-file As it passes by on the wing. Birds or people, far or near, They flock till they part their ways. If we keep still, we’ll dissapear As they chase their busy days. It’s good to sometimes sit and think With a patient air and a weather eye – Let’s slow our breaths and barely blink, And watch the world go by.
Beetles, tortoises, and nuts, Pearls in shells and wasps in galls, Hermit crabs in disused huts, Rolled-up armadillo balls, Frogs in mud and chicks in eggs, Goods in crates and crates in hulls, Drinks in bottles, bones in legs, Feet in shoes and brains in skulls.
Telepathy – could it be radio ? Could we ever evolve to receive it ? You’d better believe it ! Pigeon already can, you know, Or at least, the magnetic field, So science has revealed. And then there’s electricity, Made by the platypus and eel To help them stun or feel. And, for sheer simplicity, We all see visible light, or course – Well, that’s the self-same force ! But could we ever transmit ? Even bio-luminescence, Is a rare and gloomy presence, Though it looks like it might fit – Lengthening the waves it sends, Detected only by its friends Who see much deeper in the red – Though still strictly line-of-sight, And not exactly bright. So next – a wire inside the head, An aerial – but what does it solve ? And how could it ever evolve ? And the energy required To beam-out further than a voice Will never make it nature’s choice. No, we’ll never be wired, We’ll never buzz with secret speech – At least, not till we’re cyborgs each…
