Swallows

Not yet ready to contemplate the 

dusty lands their journey will

take them. Restless. We though 

prompted by the parched leaves, 

branches falling are ready for 

the cool draught of gentler days,

tired of the choking heat of the 

summer past. Restless, too. The 

mind has moved on already from the 

pleasures of the months past to 

anticipation of those to come – 

ice-bound, crisp days, dew, the 

comfort of frosty mornings. Perhaps 

we have forgotten how deeply the 

cold can cut, but still, we are 

almost ready to travel, too – not 

to the dry desert of an unfamiliar land, 

but the season new, where, readied 

by the rigours of the season past, 

waits the stranger we are ready to become.

The Deer

Strikingly fragile in the 

midst of its desolation,

poised to flee on limbs

too delicate, eyes too shy

to return the oblique gaze.

We have been surprised once 

more by grace, rewarded 

for the watching, the waiting. 

The field has been ravaged,

despoiled of its harvest.

It is a flat, featureless land, 

barren, but for this miracle, 

the subtlety with which we 

find challenged again the 

shallow furrows of 

our disbelief.

The Mistle Thrush

Shy? The eyes would tell you so,

the aching hesitancy with which it

ventures forth on slender legs,

picking at the still dewed grass, 

the eyes, nervous,

glancing askew, askance,

now unrivalled, imbued with

such delicate grace.

Shy? Not so much that it

would not pause to look

into your own eyes, 

recognising… Something?

Perhaps just the opportunity, 

the moment taken to pose, 

poised, for the camera lens.