Of feathers beneath the moon

When I'm not a poet, I'm an ecologist, and can be found surveying and/or writing about wildlife - usually insects, but sometimes larger creatures. This poem is about working on the Arne Penninsula in Dorset.

Mapping nightjars

Daytime apes
out of time and place,
we walk the dark heather
beyond terse ‘No public access’ signs
on every gate and fifty feet of fence,
skirting regimented blocks of pines,
shuffling through sand and lichen
to listen for the chirr of males,
triangulating with ears and eyes and GPS.
Between calls, we pencil
rough boundaries by torchlight,
scrambling colonialists
interpreting territorial extent
from snapshots and soundbites
of reproductive intent.
A few make flapping silhouettes
against the last glimmer
or perch to survey us in turn
while silent females drop to the ground,
invisible, rising strident when we pass
too near a hidden nest,
wing-flashes circling low overhead
drawing us away from precious eggs.
Our allocated square kilometre complete,
we depart and night reclaims the space.

Looking back over the summer

It's been over a week since my last post - the paid stuff has got in the way a bit, 'tis true, though I've been editing and consolidating what I've written over a busy summer of showcases, open mics and other events. New work is sat next to me waiting to be typed up and maybe lightly polished, but until then, here's a rare bit of video of me performing - this one's at the Archimedes Screw showcase featuring Susan Richardson.

Midsummer cometh

A few lines about the passage of time/seasons, the human condition, an' all that...

Nary two moons

Blimey, nay bugger,
Six weeks ‘til midsummer,
How did that happen?
What did I miss?
Just last week it seems,
Mornings frost-laden,
Now there are bees
And fine nymphs on the wing.

Where did the time go,
Midwinter through spring?
I’m sure that it wasn’t
Spent (I mean ‘squandered’)
On absinthe and floozies,
Wine that was drunk
And women who’d sing.

Instead it’s that well-worn
Old tempus-aged fugit –
Think back to the endless-hot summers of youth;
The more time we have,
The longer it stretches,
A human-conditional absolute truth,
But I’m not lamenting,
Romantically venting,
Just checking my diary
To see what I’ve done,
Thus far, about half
Of the way through my scene,
Why, where and when,
And what I have been.

Oh what a beautiful morrrrrninggg

Gotta love the beautiful spring sunshine...

The People of the May

Dance, you bullet-headed lobster-folk,
Parade, o pretty solar-powered ladies,
And sturdy chaps, don’t hesitate to stomp
In off-road action flip-flops -
Put away those gloves and scarves,
Bring out your tents,
Even if they be Cath Kidston, gents -
Light up your long-forgotten barbecues,
Waste a work-day in the park -
Such larks -
Dust off the shades and flowered shorts,
Quaff an ale or coloured cocktail,
Forget to hydrate properly,
Baste in factor oops-forgot,
Embrace the hot,
Think ‘please-no-monsoon-mud-this-year’
Festivally optimistic,
Sacrificially,
Cast the runes of Womad,
Question old Inspector Glasteau,
And send Sir Bestivale to quest -
It might be dry, you never know (I jest),
But for now,
The Green Man and the May Queen,
Bathe us in reflected glory,
Even tom-cats and old terriers,
Cease bite-and-scratch on such a day,
Bask on -
Enjoy the joyful sun-sent rays.

hey hey it's the first of May

May 1st is brimming over with symbolism - the transition from spring to summer, regrowth, the meeting of the human and spirit worlds and of course the international labour movement.

May Day liminal

Where were you, thirty-first of April,
And the zero’th day of May?
Obscured by smoke from Beltane beacons -
Drive cattle ‘tween the tway -
Or fervent recitations of
The Internationale, comrades,
By Billy Bragg, with fist on heart
Unite on Workers’ Day?
Did I oversleep Walpurgisnacht
Or get drunk on Calan Mai?
We’ve skipped from spring to summer
Without my notice either way.

So quick-quick to the holy well,
To sunwise-walk and offer
Up a precious shiny thing,
Picked carefully from the coffers.
Set yellow flowers at the door,
Roll, maidens in the dew,
Burn the horse-bones, ember-leap,
Appease the spirits true.

A festival of optimists,
Regrowth, fertility,
Though those two days I thought I glimpsed,
Keep calling out to me,
Forty-eight hours I’ll see no more,
Though e’er imaginary,
Lacunae of the calendar,
When dwell the faerie-sí.

Three everyday teatime haiku

Inspired by today's visit to the ever-splendid Art House gallery/cafe...

Skiving work today,
Sitting in the ArtHouse caff,
Sipping at my tea.

Morning summer rain
Nearly made me stay at home,
Now there is sunshine.

Inverted lion,
Butterflies, donation tube -
Things in the ArtHouse.