streets shimmer in evening glow
soaked walkers steam dry
streets shimmer in evening glow
soaked walkers steam dry
what time was it when
Sun projected pine shadows
on warm warehouse bricks
The harsh-sunned pool laid flat still
Mirror to the willows’ feathered limbs
A float-glass plate decorated with green
Fronds and strands held still beneath
No flow, no breath
I lean on the stone parapet
See my silhouette’s sharp outline
I am about to leave this scene
When a metallic flash, a flip, a soft splash
The surface cut from below by a butterfly kiss
Yes, she’s there, but not for long
But she’s there
I smile to myself and wander happily on
The cowslips have finally given up the ghost. Their yellow petals have faded, vibrancy lost, they wilt. Job done.
In the woodland at the foot of the heath, on the slope of the hill, bracken ferns are beginning to unfurl. Sprouting strong from below the past year’s brown litter, the firm green shoots, follow a curled fist of new leaf, punching upward.
The broad leaves of foxgloves are also pushing through now among the thinly distributed blue bells. A foxglove’s leaf is soft and its tip curls ground-wards because the midrib is barely strong enough to hold the emerging weight. It will be a few days yet before the fox glove shoots emerge and flower from the centre of the plant.
On the last patch of rough ground before the shore, a grasshopper warbler sits on the apex of looped bramble. Its churring might pass for that of a cicada in Spain, or Greece. A small brown bird with little remarkable about it, except its calling. In the English countryside there is nothing quite like it. As with all small, brown birds it is far easier to hear them than to see them; so it is a treat to see this Little Brown Job (“LBJ”) on song and so easily identifiable.
Further along, sat on the crown of a small bush, is a linnet, with its double patch of pale red across its breast. It basks in the last of the sunshine, without making any noticeable noise.
I pace out the width of the beach, from the low water-line to the peak of the shingle. It is more than 75 paces. I notice a small starfish, its five legs closing up from dehydration, just over 30 paces from the low tide line. It will have been there since the tide began to retreat about seven hours ago, but has yet to be gathered up by a gull, or passing crow.
A crab shell, orange and brown on the outer surface is nearby. It is brilliant white within. I pick it up and although it measures the breadth of my right hand, it weighs just a few grammes. Dried out in the sun and air, the discarded shell is friable. I drop it and watch how easily shards break from the once hard carapace when it hits the stones.
From the arête of shingle bank, I look inland and my eye is caught by the white shadow of a barn owl swinging back and forward over the pasture. When a barn owl turns, it can seem to do so within its own length. It pivots on the broad inner wing of the arc and loops itself quickly into a new direction.
I watch this ghostly hunter sink toward the grass, then rise again, before it suddenly drops deep into the field. It is out of view for a few moments before it reappears. Like the kestrel, the other day near Wiverton, the sign of a successful catch, is the flat, fast, straight flight across the chase to a more sheltered spot, to somewhere captured prey can be dealt with uninterrupted.
By the main road a broad drain runs beside a lay-by which is the preferred sales pitch of an ice-cream van in summer. On the still water a family of seven mute swans trail along, disturbed by human presence. The father makes a threatening sally towards the roadside where I am walking, the mother leads away the train of ugly ducklings, (who are really very cute, grey, fluffy bundles) along the far side of the water. One of the five cygnets is distracted by some random speck floating nearby, before it realises it has to hurry up to rejoin the end of the flotilla speeding behind the imperious mother.
Where the water broadens into a duck pond, a couple of mallards are beak-down, tail-up. exploring the murky water, creating distinct circles of ripples by their dabbling.
The sunset is spectacular. The flat sea mirrors the deepening blue of the sky. The north-west horizon is marked by a strip of deep orange, under-scored by the dark strip of a fog bank. Due north the clarity of the air gives perfect sight of the 88 wind turbines churning elegantly in the breeze.
Along the beach fishermen have made camp. Their long lines, already cast, loop languidly out into the water.
When this particular set of evening colours is displayed there is the promise of a cold night, but the night sky will be spectacular, with the third-quarter moon and the stars for decoration.
14th May, 2020
So much consistent applause for this show
It seems almost clichéd to join in
But this is one that faultlessly runs day into night
Night after night
Responding fearlessly to the high pressure
Of repeat performances
With magical lighting
Sound effects delightful
Words cannot capture the exquisite beauty
Her Infinite variety of displays
Fearless artistic improvisation
Leading her co-stars on stage
With the most brilliant first, Venus
Then too many to mention by name that follow
Except, the Moon
A sickle crescent now –
Wait until she shines full
Happily, I would watch this every evening
n.b. www.napowrimo.net Day 27 prompt: Write a review in poem form of something that may not usually get reviews.
27th April, 2020
Blood red orange drops
From colourless sky to sea
Stones remain unmoved