STORYTELLER
poet
I am the poet in residence
To serenade the flowers of Oldtown
Taking my rhythm from the bees and trees
And everything that grows
And shows
Even the Kingfisher
Seems to like my muse
And I enthuse
In the soft element of delight
To blossom in my inner sight
Knowing everything has its season
And needs no reason
To be born again
And again
A Heron stands motionless on the bank
Its head sunk on its shoulders
Like a dejected farmer
Straining its neck downwards
Its eyes firmly on the shallow water
Getting ready to pounce
A new leaf is about to be written.
Crouched by a tree
The dark refuses to leave
The awakening through whispers
A blackbird singing on a distant bush
Is anything more beautiful
Does Heaven speak
When he speaks
I enter the wood
A daffodil pushing
Through a cloak of longing
A shivering snowdrop
Looks on
A Heron stands by the canal
When I come close he moves
Taking his giant wings with him
He temps me
To come close again
The morning rush passes by
Unimpressed
As he surveys the deep
Waiting patiently for his breakfast
I picked a maggot off the road
It wriggled
Then I threw it into the softwood
And saved its life
A butterfly
Came into my office
On one October day
Danced to the radio
Then vanished through an open door
Leaving a trace of summer behind.
Today is the first of February
I had nearly forgotten
Until I saw a goldfinch and a Blackbird
Exchanging songs
Then a crow butted in
To break the melody
As a drake dodged her suitors.
A Heron stands motionless on the bank
Its head sunk on its shoulders
Straining its neck
Its eyes firmly on the shallow water
Getting ready to pounce
A new leaf is about to be written.
WHAT IS ALL THIS WATERCRESS
A BOY IN THE BROADWATER
FISHING WITH MY EMPTY JAM JARS
HUNTING PINKEENS
I ATE THE GREEN LEAVES
WASHED THEM DOWN WITH CLEARWATER
THERE IN THEIR LEAFY MULTITUDE
GIVING A HIDING PLACE TO THE REDBREAST
MY BARE FEET TINGLED
AS THE JOY WITHIN ME
BUBBLED INTO RAPTURE.