Pioneer Species

Photo by Andrew Patrick Photo on Pexels.com

Pioneer Species

We’ll still grow trees on Mars,
Under the domes,
And rooted in thin soil –
We’ll take nuts to the stars
And distant homes,
To shade our fervent toil.
Beside potato fields,
And stands of wheat,
They’ll ease the barren crag –
Not for their timber yields
Or fruits to eat,
But just to plant our flag.

It only takes an acorn,
That’s not too much weight
To build a tree.
And ev’ry sapling born
Shall grow up great
In lower gravity.
Yet forests don’t get lush
Till many years
Of Martian peace have been –
I guess we’re in no rush
To clothe our spheres,
And turn the red to green.

Which trees, though, all depends –
Can pine withstand ?
Or deserts raise a beech ?
We nurture ev’ry friend
In ev’ry land
Our giant leaps shall reach.
And thus, we’ll leave a trace
From overseas
That shows we once came by.
We’ll still grow trees in space,
Because the trees
Have reached-up to the sky.

Blue Plaque Blues

Photo by Claudio Mota on Pexels.com

Blue Plaque Blues

A writer’s house is such an odd museum –
With all their private, not-for-public touch.
Does it forever colour how we see them,
Or just amount to telling little much ?
Must we rifle through their dirty laundry,
And publish all their letters, kiss-and-tell ?
And then complain they put us in a quand’ry
Of seeing flaws when knowing them too-well.
So why does hero-worship seek these holy relics, anyway ?
And basing truth on only what they claim the gossip-mongers say ?
Although I guess some writers would adore the fame they have today,
And sure, let all the crowds come snooping round their hallowed ground…
But as for me, if my words work there due,
Don’t let the creeps come crawling through my caches –
But burn my house, and all its contents too –
And leave the pervy fanboys only ashes.

The Big Butterfly Count

Photo by Joseph M. Lacy on Pexels.com

The Big Butterfly Count

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 !

Willow Pattern

Photo by Esra Nur Kalay on Pexels.com

Willow Pattern

Two dancing birds,
Beaks apart, as if in song –
As they circle through the cloudy, milky sky.
One windsocked weeping willow,
Slanted, yet still strong,
And three folks on a hump-backed bridge nearby.
Could it be they’re fishing ?
Or waiting for the boat ?
Though it hasn’t got a sail – perhaps a punt ?
Upon the other bank
Is a house that looks afloat,
Sporting plenty of round shrubbery infront.
And over here, behind a zig-zag fence,
A squat pagoda,
That’s sheltered by a spreading ping-pong tree.
And round the edge are squares and scales,
And flowers for a coda,
A busyness of cobalt for our tea.
I stared and stared at China
On those Sunday afternoons,
When round at Gran’s, for tea and crumpets from the grate.
The disappearing cake
Revealed the timeless blue lagoons –
So very Eastern, yet so English, on a plate.

It is uncertain when the first examples of Willow Pattern appeared, although Wikipedia suggests they could have been produced by Spode in 1790.  They are, of course, a classic example of cultural appropriation – and thank goodness they were !  Genuine Chinese porcelain at this time was very expensive, and modern pecksniffs would have seen to it that it remianed so, and that the hard-working families of Britain should be denied the beauty and broadened horizons that came with their roast beef and Yorkshires.

Meditation

Photo by Prasanth Inturi on Pexels.com

Meditation

Staring deep in wonder at an apple,
Or contemplating where to move in chess,
Shutting-out the thoughts with which we grapple –
Boring, boring, boring mindfulness !

Lazy-arses squatting in believe-ment,
While others get stuff done so you can pray –
But beauty’s in distraction and achievement,
And life’s too short for omming it away.

The A300 Relief Road

Photo by Manikuttan TK on Pexels.com

The A300 Relief Road

London Bridge has fallen down
As planners suffocate the town –
They cannot fathom what appeals
In Nonesuch House and waterwheels
They claim it’s not a chance to dream,
For reasons that evade me.
It’s just a means to cross a stream,
My fair forgotten lady.

The bridge that used to grace these banks
They gladly sold-off cheap to Yanks.
They have no care for what is lost,
Just that it’s done for cheapest cost.
And now the name evokes the tides
Of business bland and shady –
Just traffic jams and suicides,
My fair forgotten lady.

Dancing Gnats

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Dancing Gnats

Time is short, perhaps a month or two,
Since they were just an egg –
But now the gnats must boogaloo,
To swarm a wing and shake a leg.
They gather round a random patch of air
Just as the eve’ning falls –
And jink and jive until they pair,
Attending countless black-fly balls.
If love is on the cards for them tonight,
It leaves them out of breath –
Exhausted from their swaggered flight,
Too soon they’ve danced themselves to death.

Auto-Iconography

Triple Self-Portrait by Norman Rockwell

Auto-Iconography

Why so many self-portraits ?
Vanity, or an honest appraisal ?
Why the endless tortured brow,
And wistful gaze of hazel ?
Are they honest, or distorted ?
Simply practice, or masterclass ?
Or is the cheapest model that funds allow
A looking-glass ?

Quad-Ops

I found this image on the following Facebook page, which itself appears to have taken illustrations from A Novel Vertebrate Eye Using Both Refractive and Reflective Optics

Quad-Ops

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.

Adderbolts

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

Adderbolts

OED first citation for dragonfly: 1626

Where were the darts of Galilee ?
And the damsels of the Rubicon ?
Was Runnymede so needle-free,
Or the Athens Woods of Oberon ?
So where are all the dragonflies ?
There’s not a word in tale or scroll –
The Greeks and Romans closed their eyes,
The monks and knights ignored them whole.

It took the new Enlightenment
To even notice them at last –
And then Romantics sought intent
In Nature bold and wild and vast –
Till Art Nouveau, which gave them wings
That keeps them soaring till this day –
As wardens of eternal springs,
Where dreamy Summers while away.

So where were the dragonflies of Hermes ?
Why no mention in the myths ?
Why did Freya not claim these flurries,
Crafted by the finest smiths ?
Perhaps the Bible’s just too dry
For water-sprites as story-tools,
But rainy Europe shouldn’t shy
To catch the eye with flying jewels.

Transforming in among the reeds,
A lit’ral metamorphosis –
The fey-folk surely rode these steeds ?,
Yet Brigid never knew such bliss.
Shouldn’t the Devil have taken hold ?,
Or gargoyles, say, or heraldry ?
Yet where were the dragonflies of old ?,
Who chirped and danced for nobody.

‘Adderbolt’ is the only earlier name for them that I couold find, and this only dates from 1483, according to the OED, and ‘Devil’s darning needle’ is only from 1809.

And finally, the image below is from a poster which looks reminiscent of others advertising the various Art Nouveau exhibitions at places like the V&A.cHowever, I cannot find out anything else about this particular image, and if it is even an original by William Morris.  I hope it isn’t AI…