David Thurlow

 Zen like and nimble

Fit as a thimble

That shadowy man of the lair

Bearded not greedy

By rights not all there

Shaggy not bad tempered

Robust as his fencing

Traced back his lines to the roots

Whole hearted, out-smarted

by no one above him

You just have to love him

Mr Thurlow comes from stock of the bear

 

You shout in his direction

He hears not a question

But answers with meaningful stare

Romance is in him

No Lance corporal can wince him

That canny old elf of great care

 

I once had met

Some folk who could vet

They saw him leap five great stairs

Look in river or stream

He's near anything green

You cannot believe his clean hair

 

David Thurlows his name

But he's outside the game

Still winning while he's not in there

Do you wait by the river

Or stumble the gorge

There's a man who'll deliver

His life in the forge

Cast of iron or steel

You know it ain't real

But believe this man of the lair

 

Ghosts risen in steam,

The glen or the stream

Mr Thurlow will willow,

and billow your windrow

Til canal boat and thimble

Do thread where the wind blows

Then you'll hear his voice on the air

Calling come back and greet us

Ye locals and far reachers

And step your nimble feet in Ebbors lair

King Stink the Mink King

 I stole the peat

I stole the ground

I stole from the moorhens and ducks I found

I stole the water vole from out his hole

And made it mine

Now they pay my toll

 

I stole the coot

And kept as loot

Their egg,

They beg

Me to return it in time

But finders Keepers

What I find is mine

Between the railway sleepers

And under the pine

 

I sit upon my Lordly throne

Do what I like, to each his own

The otter’s pelt is what I smelt

And I burn it in my fire where it melts

There’s nobody better than the mink

There’s no more handsome a fellow

On the levels I think

 

The otter’s time has been and gone

I threw him out like I did the swan

Or else in his neck my teeth did sink

And his blood made wine for me to drink

 

I am king of great wealth

King am I, me and myself

Go fetch my coat

Ye servant stoat

Go lay down flat

Ye Meare cat

And humble yourself in my presence

Bring in fowl and game and pheasants

Today we feast in my name

King Stink or Darius the cruel

It’s all the same

For I wear the crown and the levels is my jewel

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