Rousseau-esque

 What is it we see?

When we walk out in January

The clematis seed in flower

Hanging like ghosts in the woodland bower

Or when the buxom beech, big and round

Its trunk like a tuber growing out of ground

Who’s mighty girth boasts

Of all the minerals it has found

 

Or when the iridescent greens

Strike up as if cymbals of a band

Then in come the greys and hues of blue

That clash and sound the woodland brass stand

 

What can a man find here to satisfy his soul?

Whose natural constituents entertain so droll?

When none of it is of real use

Decaying rotting roots

No good for man or mole

Yet just to stand there

As the shadows play between leaves

And the sun light cuts up in colours

As if the earth from heaven was stole

And catch the sound of a blackbird

Or the hoot of an owl

That is the best of this world

And it gives a place to man’s soul

In it at peace somehow

To catch a mouse or Mouse trap

 When I see yer running sound

To the forests of the ground

Then I pity man or mole

Who happen treadeth on your black hole

That badger trap

That black pit pole

Which reaches back for rat or vole

And closes snap on nose or tail

Oh what a shame to be slow as a snail

Oh fail once they call you mouse

Fail twice its as bad as louse

But snap that trap

As fast as a cat

The tail which tails the vole or rat

Will bite at that

 

And never redeem, though he may bite through

But be he mouse or be he shrew

You get his house

He won’t love you

He’ll douse and dance

And pounce and prance

As if the wood were burning down

And chance a slip, a skip away from palm

He’ll dash away from harm

Squirrel Lawn

 I saw the violence of a squirrel

When he fights for his last meal

But be He large or be He small

He’ll be cracking nut and all

The churlish oak that is his home

Reaches its twisted bark

As gloaming turns to dark

To Everest tree top crown

When the bat gangs come to town

 

The squirrel courting the dirty dozen

Happens to mention he is their cousin

They fling him long and taper and type

To the end of an oaken limb pipe

And there all fluting in their jail bird lungs

Commence to throw him and there he is flung

To see if this relative kind will revert to type

And swoop and swipe

But he slings and slouches and gripes

Into the leaves which wetly wipe

And leave him not the sugar glider

More the salt and pepper provider

 

And so he settles back to his nestles

And cracks more nuts above dreaming nettles

Then the bats fly off to greet the dawn

And all is quiet on squirrel lawn

A Thrush

 

A thrush came to my window sill

About quarter past the hour

The ink was white upon his spikey head

As the winter air turned bitter sour

 

He stayed there for a little while

Pecking crumbs and dusting his bristles

A pigeon brooded in the pine

And my friend flew off

To make another sill

At a different time

Down on the Pond

 Down on the Pond

See the Swans in their silver robes

Minnow with willow wings in a bow

Leaves like tears

Every kind of seed

Many things I cannot believe

A man on the water without any bonds

Down on the Pond

 

I see summer come on a breeze

Winter leaves on a sneeze

A bittern booms across the trees

Hills stand on their knees

Like baby mountains waiting to feed

Down on the Pond

 

All is filled with song and seed

All is hope and life and creed

No one's chained and all are freed

Down on the Pond

 

Otters lift their heads and sink

Salmon jump as fish in pink

Waders walk on toppling stilt

As willows wander sway and wilt

And timeless teaming Gold Finch wink

Like a cloud of eyes that turn and blink

Down on the Pond

 

The islands are alive

Old tin huts corrode survive

Like supplicated saints baptised

Down on the Pond

They live their lives

 

Down on the Pond

Many things I can see

It is the 'I' of creation, reflection

In depiction of reeds

And all living things

Are catered for

Down on the Pond

 

Rain drops are jumping

Nettles bow to winds that are bumping

Livid sparrows and barrow's hawk

Who come here to do their work

And tenuous strands to human hands

Stand like bridges built

And Hide shutters rot and warp

Down on the Pond

on the Pond

down On the pond

Electra, I met her, now I cannot forget her

 She was Electra

I never wanted to leave her

He wouldn't let her

She said forget her

Oh weary old life

Of Carmen Electra

Burning with the gypsies

In passionate ship's seas

With pirates and sunken treasure troves

Her lover wanted to be near his mother

What did their life mean to him?

Nothing she said it

And wished she were dead of it

He said he promised to be

Will you leave me? 

Do you want me to? 

I want to know

Leave me yes, just go

So she goes to see the gypsies

Garden rows

 There are rich folks who keep em

and tramps who do sleep in em

There are flower planters, and potters and hoes

And fun guys who stop in em, and blow fly who pop in em

And blue bottles who blow hot n cold

But a garden will harden your taste for the women

Said God to Adam back then

Be they full fat or skimmin

Those full bodied women

For Eve, Adam was a fool

You might meet him in April with the showers

Or in May while he's weeding the flowers

Or in June when the boon

Of a sweet summer swoon

Is in full bloom in the beds and the trees

He's a goose in the berries

He'll kneel down like the Maries

At the feet of The Lord Jesus at the tomb

He'll park it and lark it

Like a Nightingale market

When the hobgoblins come into your room

He'll Fuchsia and Susia 

and cousin cross loose yer 

with the guinea fowl and the Peahen

And then they'll imbue yer 

with apple juice from a milieu 

of trees

that'll make you think of the birds and the bees

Because Sunday in a garden, is when all work must stop

Then God leaves his sickle upon table top

And he lies down with his missus 

And she rests her mop

Because the house is as clean as can be

And because the garden never will be free

From inside his green sleeve

Where he wore his heart for Eve 

Oh what can you make of the musical garden

The trumpets and strings and guitars in em

 The fluted lilies in rhythm go

 drumming to heaven like a lettuce love show

And I'm in heaven when I'm in them so 

Oh keeping up with the Jones

Who with begonias and bougainvilleas 

Are entertaining Huguenots And Astronauts 

And gnomes 

But beside the pond

Where frogs all frond

Upon frilly lillies with sticky willy tongues

The Combs of the honey

The ribald ribbit that isn't funny

But just when a neighbour is a friend or dial tone 

When your garden is the same as

Your next door neighbours

Then you should be very afraid 

To be better than the Franklin's or Jones

Who tend and water religiously

Whether they are together or alone

It keeps their hands busy and better

that than dizzy with petty jealousies

For which to atone

So dare you look beyond with your eyes

 oh outside of the gates of paradise

So to paradise market

Where the sales tags mark it

All discount prices on God's creation

But of course man will sell it

To garden gates of hell with it

Where it will be too hot to grow it

Anyway

And bring it home to grow it

Let the bees suck and show it

And just once you may know it

To be good

That at last you've made

a neighbourhood

but your neighbour's a pain in the neck

because she's always sunbathing on deck

She says you're blocking her light

 Next we're into a fight 

and nobody's framing the night

So let bygones be bygones

And bury the hatchet

For the next year a new government

Is bound to unthatch it

Just weave it together

And chat over the hedge line

For there's nothing better than the weather

To converse about to kill time