Spring Rondel

Experimenting with forms I wrote "Three Triolets" and posted them here on 11 June 2019. And here's a jeu d'esprit, "What is the Use of Grinning," written in April 1980.

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Peaceable pigeons patrol the promenade,
Salut Sir Sun who shines in daylong sear,
Water’s whispering wavelets weft in the ear.

Intellect’s inklings inch to an insight warm-starred,
Fulsomely fondling formulae which fable the year:
Peaceable pigeons patrol the promenade,
Salut Sir Sun who shines in daylong sear.

Guard though! Grim the garçon who gurns his aubade,
Huckstering hopes to handstand too near, too here –
Trailblaze trapezing will only trip to a tear.
Peaceable pigeons patrol the promenade,
Salut Sir Sun who shines in daylong sear,
Water’s whispering wavelets weft in the ear.

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© May 2020

The Thrush

I've written quite a number of bird poems, especially including my mates the gulls. The bird world, behaviour and consciousness are ever fascinating. Here's a link to "Goldfinch" posted on 4 September 2017 and here's a link to "Robin and Leaf" posted on 10 August 2017.

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“Tirra lirra,” sang the thrush,
   Very loud then very hush,

Courting mates or chasing foe,
   Scolding off the chancy crow;

Proudly spotted, all a’gush,
   Fluting, whistling, tutting “tush;”

Cracking shells or tugging worms,
   Frankly killing on its terms;

Hen-bespread sans doubts or blush
   Yields a clutch of eggs, blue-plush,

Which on twig-thin legs it guards,
   Hop-skip anxious, running yards;

But it’s odds a cat will rush,
   Tearing it to bloody mush:

Killer killed is Nature’s law,
   Red in purpose, tooth and claw;

“Tirra lirra,” sang the thrush,
   Overflowing, full and lush.

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© April 2020

In Age in Garden Bowers

In age in garden bowers a man must wait,
Then a lesion bursts and the groundsman locks the gate.

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© April 2020

Heigh-Ho

Two earlier poems along (sort of) similar lines are "Forfending Every Fable" posted here on 11 December 2019 and (written about fifty years ago) "My Living" posted here on 3 September 2013.

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How long is life in living,
How short it is when’s gone,
That blossom, swell and setting,
Is soonest blown and dun;
The girl that flings her tresses,
The boy that leaps in health,
Both mourn their shrivelled faces,
Time-decayed by stealth.

So hey for the springtime footings,
For the summer’s growth and hugs,
For autumn’s lap-filled gettings,
Even winter’s ice and fogs;
But loath the skin in tatters,
The hand at rest that shakes,
For men are nature’s debtors,
And must pay for all that breaks.

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© March 2020