Tag Archives: Birds

An Uncalm Day in Saint-Galmier

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I think that I’ve been banned from Saint-Galmier.
The horrid rains that washed us down from Beaune
had stopped, but lengthy queues along the motorway
persuaded us to leave it in Lyon.
We cruised the D-routes till the dwindling day
conspired with tiredness and ennui to hone
our interest in hotels marked tranquille.
Saint-Galmier had one, for our ordeal.

The room is white, innocuous, and clean.
It opens on a garden with tall trees.
The pool is in the garden. Yes, we’ve seen.
And will one take one’s dinner here? Yes, please.
Apéritif? A sherry’s peachy keen.
That’s sherry brandy, waiter. Please surcease
insisting that we ordered it. La carte
before the hors again. Think of my heart!

Bad dinners in this country are bad luck
but happen once or twice each twenty years.
Tonight is one such time: the sous chefs pluck
the quail I planned for dinner to its ears
then poach it with the salad in the buck-
et used for chilling wine. The bird appears,
much as its mother knew it, with its head.
I plop it in the bucket, go to bed.

headed quail

Sailing Close to the Whinge

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It had been a normal mid watch for the crew of the Windchill Attic
until Dante had sent them selfies from Circle Seven
and they noticed that behind him in the gore
stood a laughing jackdaw miming ‘never more’
or something. ‘Won’t the Chaplain be ecstatic
when we show him this?’ the Mate said. ‘This proves Heaven
must be real too. I can’t wait to get ashore
and show him this.’ The Captain woke and swore.

He sat up in his captain’s chair and grumbled.
He scrutinised the photographs. He demanded
that the communications officer come to the bridge.
They found said person by the wardroom fridge
and told him. He said, ‘I’ll be there,’ and mumbled
‘toot sweet’ or something. He came up empty handed
and saluted. ‘Look at that jackdaw on the ridge
behind Dante,’ said the Captain, ‘and abridge

that stream of what in the selfie seems invective
that the bloody bird is spouting.’ The corpulent COMMO
saluted again and asked the O.O.D.
to authorise a light so he could see
better all the pixels in the reflective
speech if it were that. The selfie seemed a promo,
he thought, but of what? My lip reading skills won’t be
any use with a bird. Is that jackdaw mocking me?

Impromptu Afternoon Funeral for a Merle

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This bird’s Chapter One has ended.
Fake epic, abbreviated,
bird’s body in the unkempt grass.
Mallard tries to stare me down.
He wins. I win. We draw.
Across the canal, grey cat watches red.
A mower’s motor irritates.
The flowing water’s shades of green
float first fall leaves past us,
mallards, cats duck, me,
and the body of the bird.

The first boat has a rusted rudder.
The second has new, blue covers.
The coot that is silent
swims towards me, and dives.
She surfaces, eating weed.
To whom was this merle’s epic real?
Warmth and mites address the corpse:
its feathers, skin and song.
A mallard splurges wake.
Birds so loud they hurt my ears
contest the chestnut’s branches.

The sander quiets us all,
doing honest maintenance work.
Four more mallards paddle by.
The dead merle’s feathers stay still
while wind ruffles the red cat
as it stares down a floating feather.
What can be stayed, after execution?
I watch the red cat watching water.
Tall weeds dip purple flowers.
Shadows lengthen long enough
to cover more than the merle.

Souvenir d’une Tempête, Confolens

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The barn owls lost their home tonight.
The tree crashed on the stable’s roof
and knocked its tiles into the night.
The horseshoe from the champion’s hoof
fell from the stone wall it has graced
two hundred years and disappeared
in hay the falling tree displaced.
Like flapping bats, though smaller-eared,
the barn owls flew, but one was grazed
by a cedar branch that broke its wing.
Its mother circled back, full crazed
by winds, but could not do a thing.
The wounded owl chick rallied twice
then died, relieving many mice.

At One

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I neatly peel the hard-cooked egg. The bread,
too fresh to slice, I tear in strips to stretch
as ragged bun. Fresh mayonnaise and salt
complete the menu for my simple meal.
A blackbird watches from the tree outside.
She plays she sieves the sun with those small twigs
held in her beak. (Do I imagine that?)
My mind relaxes seeing her. No need
for words comparing this to other worlds.
I eat my daily bread. It is enough.

Coot-Swallow, Everyone!

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Auguries require a due respect
to count for anything influencing deeds,
though reckoning backwards helps, as you’d expect,
convince us they relate to human needs.

To name the day for the first birds you see
is smarter than to study economics,
enough to recommend, it seems to me,
it over college, reading Sunday comics,

consulting stars, or running phrases on.
Exceeding science, it comes near religion.
I have a portent I can base this on,
my horse came in a winner on Crow-Pigeon.

————
Coot-Swallow, everyone!
It’s a glorious spring day here. A coot-swallow day, to name the day after the first two birds I saw after going outside this morning. I had provisionally thought today was Dove-Weathervane, but looking out the window does not count.