Tag Archives: nature

K Morris reading his poem ‘The path through the woods’.

Poet Kevin Morris reading his poem ‘The path through the woods’.

 

Sometimes

Sometimes I attempt to shout down the birds
And choose
To lose
Myself in words.
But as a dart
Ere long
Their song
Pierces my heart.

On occasions I try
To escape the owl’s cry
And pretend
There is no end
To meet
And sheet.
But as night falls,
He calls to me.

Magpie

Someone said
A magpie
Killed a blackbird, stone dead
And that is why
He dislikes the magpie.

We laud it over the magpie for he is our inferior.
And we humans, being superior
Do good to one another
For who will
Kill
His brother?

Why the Budds Are Sticky In Springtime

As a small boy, I remember my grandfather telling me the below story, as to how the buds come to be sticky in springtime. I always assumed that he took the story from a collection of fairytales. However I have searched high and low and it would appear that he invented the tale to entertain me. However, if anyone does know the origin of the tale please do leave a comment. (I don’t remember the tale word for word so have used poetic license when retelling it).

In spring, a group of naughty gnomes (all unseen)
Did toadstools paint with glue
In order to catch the fairy queen.
‘Tis true
For my grandfather told me how the queen stuck fast
And, at last,
On her escape, she did say
To the gnomes “go your way
For I pardon your crime.
But, come springtime
You
Must paint the budds with your pots of glue.
Every year mind,
Or you shall find
That I am not so kind!”
So every year
Out of fear
Of what the fairy queen would do
Where they to forget,
The gnomes paint the budds with glue
(they are busy yet)!

“A Storm Is Coming” They Said

“A storm is coming” they said
Yet I hear no thunder
Overhead.
I wonder
Why this dread
Of the mighty Thor?
We close window and door
And watch the lightning’s flame
Put our civilisation to shame.

Thor he came
Long before
I was a twinkle in my parents eye
And the gods will remain
(but not so you and I).

Death and Rebirth.3.

These dry
Leaves do not die.
They become one with the earth.
A derth
Of green
Is seen,
Then a rebirth,
The old, in the new
Takes root
And does heavenwards shute.
The past, present and future one may see
In the mighty tree,
While you and me
Pass by
With a sigh
As we ponder on our mortality.