The sun tricks the flowers to bloom with its false brightness, low shine that hits the glass, lights up the smears and makes dust motes dance, as winter sneaks back in.
Poetry using Kennings.
I am a thermal floater ,
A finger flutterer,
Calling for a takeaway treat.
I am an alarm screecher,
A lesson teacher,
you know I am near.
A rampant rodent scoffer
A gliding hunter
Keeping farmlands clean.
I am an Auditory mesmerizer,
With my soaring cries,
I am a sorcerer in disguise.
I am beauty,
I am a Red Kite.
By Ellen Best March 2021
Picture from https://pixabay.com/
I took the childlike kenning and inserted the concept into a freestyle poem, I believe it made this creature come alive. Another new route for me inspired by Lynn Whitehead from the Suffolk arts link. I like to play with what I feel safe with and try new forms, at least I try, … but did it work?. How do you push the invisible boundaries? I would love to know, talk in the comments below I will respond double quick.
I love the crunch beneath my boots,
Crisp mornings and coloured trees.
Fingerless gloves and owl hoots,
Long scarves down to my knees.
Conkers burst their, spiked armour,
Spill their seeds for conker wars.
Scarlet and golden paint a scene,
To cover paths and forest floors.
Without Autumn there’d be no respite
a harvest moon would not appear.
No Halloween or cosy suppers
To bring us all our Autumn cheer.
So many of you asked, ‘what are conkers?’ I have popped this link for you. Here . The shaddow fighter picture above was found un credited on the internet and depicts a conker war. All other shots are of my own making.
What do you like about Autumn? Have you played Conkers? I’d love to hear … go on, you know you’d like to.
March Marches On
Linda Hill challenges with the word March press here to read or join in the fun.
It was the sound and sight of spring,
That bouncing boxing lop eared thing.
He ruled his paddock won his mate
in his hole next the five bar gate.
The March hare mad as can be
Brings spring to life this morning for me.
Fox stalks his vixen flicks his brush
Jumps atop his choice in a rush.
Twice or thrice maybe more
grinds her into the floor
when her belly is round and full
another vixen he will pull.
March Marches to the beat
of Mother nature’s drum
We call her
A bit of whimsy to warm your soul and tickle your fancy. I hope you liked it.
DON’T BLAME IT ON THE MAGPIE.
This is about my rebirth, moving away from familiarity, family and friends. Starting afresh and trying to fit in. Leaving employment where I was held in high regard, to retire ten years earlier than I imagined, given the oportunity to write. Find a new life with a new husband.
Me and He, have only lived in Somerset for three and a half years, we relocated from East Anglia and are still trying to fit in to rural life, amongst people who’s families have resided in the area for generations. We have a pleasant home at the end of a small Cul-de-Sac in a tiny village. We have a mature garden with tall trees and a stream running along the bottom. The gardens a south facing corner plot; the reason we bought it.
Today I will introduce you to Doris and Mandy. Both names I changed for privacy sake; and my safety. Doris is eighty something years young, has a string of children, grand children, and great grand children, Somerset born and bred with a rich accent to boot. She lives alone in her bungalow at the end of the close.
Last year Doris had a car accident, after some weeks in hospital she was allowed home wearing a neck brace and sporting a twisted hand and a nasty leg injury.
The other person is Mandy, she is also Sometset born and bred. We go walking together, shopping and generally enjoy being what my Father would call “Silly buggers”.
So between Mandy and myself we pop in on Doris and check she’s okay. Mandy picks up medicines and shopping, I bring her the few yards to our home where we chat, drink tea and hopefully stop her being lonely. Yesterdays visit went something like this.
Mandy brought Doris in for a cuppa, a cake and a chat. Doris was selling the church/village monthly paper which she put on the table, as I fetched my purse.
“Thrush hasn’t visited the area for nigh on three years” Said Doris as She took the money for the paper. She sniffed and went on to blame the majestic Magpie that bounced like a youth across my back lawn.
*Pointing* she said “Bloomin vermin they are, steal eggs, eat chicks and hedge hop, that’s the rascal”, she unpeeled her coat and nestled her bottom into a big armchair. I was pretty sure Mr Thrush had been feasting from my lawn for three weeks now, but not wanting to contradict until I was certain; I kept schtum.
Doris and Mandy debated the culling of Magpies and Badgers in Somerset, as they blew their tea, licked chocolate from their fingers and chortled away in their Somerset dialect. John ‘best half’, championed the Magpie and thought Badgers beautiful, which gave me an opening to voice my opinion. Doris was having none of it “Vermin I say, and so would the farmers if you asked them”.
Doris let slip a few snippets of village gossip (which are now in my note book for later use) she wagged her finger in her I’m telling you manner several times before her cake was finished. A pleasant interlude was had, everyone hugged and thanked my best half for the lively debate and the ladies left.
This morning in writer mode I got up about five thirty after an hour #writing #Editing I took my morning tea to the french windows and sat. The sun filtered by the rain began to sneak through the sycamore at the bottom of the garden. Then there on the lawn, delving it’s spikey beak through the sod in search of a juicy breakfast was Mr Thrush. My photographic skills or lack of stopped me from catching a picture good enough for here. But fortunately my sister in law is an avid photographer and allowed me to post her picture of a thrush in full song.
Our love of the wildlife here had me researching the RSPB website; hoping to see if I could do anything to encourage more into the garden.
My googling revealed that the Thrush is on an RSPB red list; which means numbers are very low . But I was pleased to be right when I read that the Magpie and Sparrow Hawk are not responsible for the decline of small song birds.
The ‘offender’ as Doris would say, are the farmers, for filling in wetland ditches and pulling up the hedgerows. The very people that were being defended ( by the farmers daughter) only yesterday at my table.
Now I just have to get the courage to tell Doris she is wrong…
I may leave it a while, after all I can’t afford to lose a source of information, or upset the locals… not this week.
press here to read others take on Coleen and Ronovan’s prompt.
My picture says it all… tea the cure for everything, the first step to fit in to a new life. A rebirth of us.