Birds of a feather …

Dawn breaks! dimly, we may see
The birds swoop from the few trees around.
Anxiously looking for food

Even in the benign winter,
late autumnal daybreak
A clear night, foggy early morning

Sees the early morning visit
Around the hotel trash bins
Moving stealthily, hopping around the sleeping tires.

A few minutes, with the deed done
A dash back into the sheltering trees
off to the next spot where food is easily got

Their silent fluttering forms
as if falling leaves, gentle in their descents
Grey, white feather filled, early morning assault.

Crows …

… in the City,

Are sent to try us,
To see if we’re alert,
or just simply posing

The raucous call is calling,
to those far and wide,
he’s the master of his turf, also just aside.

They show no sense of ego,
just birdie sense of pride
they own all this and more of it .. beside.

They seem content to rasp their call
then look about in consternation, to see,
A challenge or interruption


Would bring about hasty retreat
off their feet
up into the world above

Crows likely dream of a world of garbage spread before them ?
they dream of a pristine world?
Where they have the only garbage piece.

Either way their prissy attitude? Is the same …

Carrion ..

… rule the skies, in the city …

In the early morning, we are ruled by gangs of birds.
Descending on the city like Genghis Khan of old.
Beaks for their spears, eyes for their bows

They bow their heads to no one. In empiric bird world
Early morning with sun, fall upon the herd,
Garbage bins and parking lots, as their main quarry

Out of the sun they drop onto the unsuspecting foe.
Detritus of human life flyblown greasy paper, polly cups
and special cardboard carton bags

First the crows then the gulls come upon the the ground
they strut their stuff, swagger with quiet kerfuffle.
silently they grab the hoard and make off up above..

Eyes bright, claws sharp, best to defeat their prey.
Mighty styrofoam monster and wax proof paper tray
To repeat the sortie. On another unsuspecting day.

Music man in the early morn …

Sing out, sing out…


Pose me a riddle, quote me a rhyme
toot me a fiddle, sing out the line

Play us a melody, sweet and sublime
give us the treble, things of that kind

Play us a tango, mango and lime
lay on bassoon, clarinet, ones that go wang

Come oh music man, pluck us your line
waltz, foxtrot, twist, cha-cha or salsa lime

The pipe sound of our music, the conch sounds of our heart
pound upon the soul’s own; sweet drumbeats of time



Around midnight …





In the night
the people are sleeping

In the night
the insects stir

Cleaning the landings
cleaning the stairs

In the night
people deep breathing

In the night
wonders performed

Healing wounds, scars,
deep seated miseries

In the night
comes the time before dawn

In the night
we become ancient

Dreams of our destiny
become our realities, flung, strewn on seashore

Rain daze …

… the ground is already soaked from the overnight rain.

The day that was yesterday, pushed away from the incoming clouds.
The trees looking forlorn, in their autumnal colours, shake in the stiff breeze. Sea mists lie heavy, on the coast.

The grey that is morning, this morning, creeps in; through the door frame. Faint yellow golds, tinge the pallor. Scurrying to work jobs, heads bent down against the drizzles. The people come and go.

Cars, wait patiently for attention, on the forecourt. Smug in their paint and glass, Waiting to burst into mechanical life. The birds nowhere to be seen. Left? Only the winter flocks, of carrion persuasion, behind.

The rains bring renewed life, subsiding in the soils below. Ready to burst anew. When, spring warming, sun rays summon them forth. Trickles and trills. beneath dense close foliage. Copped to receive the ancient elixir.

Beneath ant colonies die off, spiders scurry to lay in against the colder weather to come. Eggs sacs full. Slow moving, for winter bites at the legs. The layer beneath, as busy as the one above.

When the rains come and autumn beckons to beyond. The globe tilts. To expose it’s other hemisphere, toward our star. The geese gather in for the season. All is well in our world …