Birds go where they wish
Terns can fly from pole to pole
Thoughts go anywhere
Haiku: ‘Birds’
Tag: birds
Ayscoughfee Hall Museum and Gardens – and Birds!
Probably Spalding‘s ‘hidden’ gem, Ayscoughfee Hall Museum and Gardens is a medieval gem, well maintained, with a fascinating south Lincolnshire regional museum.
Formerly also a private junior school, now located elsewhere in the town under the same name, the gardens are noted for their topiary, the rather notable Edwin Lutyens world war 1 memorial and a very nice aviary with many interesting species finches and other birds. Lutyens was one of the most famous and capable British architects of the 2oth century.
Although the town has been deeply affected by the crises of this year, it is still well worth a visit if you live nearby or are on holiday in the area.
And by the way, the locals pronounce it ‘Asscoffee’!
Copyright Francis Barker 2020
The Heron
Haiku: Coalescence
Birds like random thoughts
Squawking right over my head
Ideas coalesce
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Haiku: The Word Is Out
So the word is out
Something birds knew long ago
Where have they all gone?
Copyright Francis Barker 2020
Haiku: Changes
Brought up with the soil
Birds gather for the feasting
Eternal changes
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Haiku: Spring Arrives
When does spring arrive?
Not with buds or songs of birds
In a hopeful mind
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Haiku: Where are the Swifts?
The swifts are late this
year, the streaking sky forlorn;
signs to watch out for
copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019
Poem: ‘August in Yesteryear’
Summer was once ices poles and living
on bikes; we were free like swifts
screaming circles in the air. Greens
were for football and teams twenty a side,
roads for playing cricket, where cars
were stalling aberrations. We lay
on lawns watching clouds, minds unfettered
in those zenith blues; guilt
and care belonged to
some other world and school
might well have been
beyond the moon.
Only later came guitars with boys’ awakenings;
serenading neighbours
sunbathing in the yard, or the shock
of full moons rising late in the day. We really
thought we had credence, like southern
Skynyrd boys, singing in that
sultry heat with school coming at us
like banks of cloud, the football season
begun and cricket nearing its end,
watching shadows gathering
where the sun once shone
poem © copyright David F. Barker 2012
Poem ‘Hurricane’s Grave’
Hurricane’s Grave
A copse can be an intimate
friend. Most days he roamed there, always
finding something to love, a life of
reasonable expectation.
Late winter was a favourite time; tree tops
took on reddish hues and
there were further signs other
than snowdrops
and blue tits’ brighter songs, of the
burgeoning spring
Today was different. Large boots
had been this way,
their wearer, like
a stump line of grey, stood
barely seen by an old fence, through straight
saplings in sunlight.
He approached the figure, which seemed
to dissipate like mist in the sun, something
he’d mistaken for form
and life
But it was more than
a notion that had led him there. The fence
overlooked a rolling field, familiar lumps
and bumps of pasture unchanged
for decades,
where lords in their demesnes might
still rule for all he knew.
He leant on the fence, it
gave way in his hand. A piece of torn
grey cloth freed from a nail, flopped to
the damp ground.
He held it,
felt its old thick weave— like a uniform
He pondered the scene in front
of him, gave space to wartime tales,
the remembered lumps and
bumps which might easily hide a
hurricane’s grave
image and poem © copyright david f. barker 2012
* The Hurricane here, is a British WWII fighter plane
Poem ‘The Sparrow’
The Sparrow
The sparrows are gone and now the winter is lonely.
Their spaces are taken by the gravelled drives
and the paved gardens. There will be no reprieve
but as the little bird leaves, like the wise man
deserts a fool, know that everything has its time
and that ours, too, is almost run.
*
The horse chestnut’s elephantine trunk glows warm
in the low winter sun, its clawing bareness stretches
into a cleansing sky. A narrow shaft of yellow light
dispels the rime on the whitened sward,
and the hanging orange globes of the passion flower,
like tiny suns, remind us of long gone warmth,
a hint of the approach of solstice day.
*
The lone robin stands guard, like a redcoat
patrolling his shed roof, punching way above his weight
to see off the bigger birds, those who would dare
plunder his own private space. He has nothing
but disdain for the squabbling starlings
who strut around in their shiny suits
in vain shows of bluster and pretence.
*
Even the cowslips thought it was spring.
Over keen, they showed their yellow hats
when the weather was mild and now they’re
caught out in a sudden arctic blast.
So too, the evergreen rosemary, whose lilac flowers,
though welcome, reveal the underlying unease
at the heart of the garden.
*
So we grew to like mowing the lawn, put up
with cutting the hedge. We let the poppies grow wild
and the elderflower rampage. We even learned
to love nettles and the funny little weeds –
but the sparrow never came back. They say he lives
in tiny enclaves now, in the fringes with red squirrels,
quite unknown in these parts, where the blackbird
chinks a meagre winter song.
poem © copyright df barker 2012
*first published in poetry collection ‘Anonymous Lines’, available on amazon.com
Please also see this: http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=sr_tc_2_0?rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Ck%3AMilly+Reynolds&keywords=Milly+Reynolds&ie=UTF8&qid=1338013925&sr=1-2-ent&field-contributor_id=B0056IY4OE
