A red kite, but no osprey (dedicated to Catrin Finch and Seckou Keita…and the Dyfi Osprey Project)

2015 flowers, family, friends 052(PHOTOS by Marc Mordey – the Penrallt Eagle, created by the blacksmiths

at Dinas, Pembrokeshire)

 

(The music, like the bird itself

Soars

Above the Dyfi Estuary,

and over the mangroves

fumbling their way to the

Isle de Palétuviere

as the pirogues drift down glassy water

and a pelican dominates the jetty)

 

In Pembrokeshire,

a red kite

eddying the cloudless sky

imperious above our crop dusted fields

might spy

siskin, finch, wood pigeon

a thrush, jack hammering a snail

between two stone dogs

keeping their green mossed vigil

A young jackdaw

striking a cormorant pose

bewitched by the chimney

beating time on the ridge tiles

 

(It’s hot, this year)

 

There are swallows skimming

and Amazons at sail in the bay

muted blue below

 

(and the harp still swoons

and the kora

flying fingered fishing line

rocks a gentle rhythm

whilst I am at sea

in a pyjama striped hammock)

 

Blue tits, dipping for water

in the stone bird bath

that celebrates a golden grand-parented wedding

of 50 years ago

 

There are lilies blooming

amidst the dying embers of foxglove

and jasmine perfume teasing

romping in a green gaged balloon of bush

St John’s Wort in full throttle

And pink flushed, sunset resplendent

oliander, a whisper of Greece

and the road to Milapotamos

that we took

so long ago

 

(and the opsrey, Dinas, fledges

takes fleeting, freewheeling flight

and feels Wales on its wings

maybe anticipates

instinct, deep chested and hidden

Senegal sunshine

 fat flowing river

sea hawk’s delight)

 

The honeysuckle is draped

and honeyed

whilst the weather vane is stilled

the umbrella stifled with gaffer tape mends

no breeze

no sirocco

blowing the wind southerly

from Africa

 to lighten the atmosphere.

 

(but, no fear

for the music still plays,

swaying, stirring, evoking

 the sea,

Carningli

Dinas Head

Morfa Head

and the Land of Song beyond

still here

still here)

2015 flowers, family, friends 051

 

 

 

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Summer poem – of calves, community and being an outsider, an incomer….

“All things must pass. Mankind is as grass.”

 

Summer poem

Two calves adventured, maybe misdirected

or spooked? Perhaps, a dog?

dived into the grassy basket of Matilda’s field,

bovine misadventure,

not equine, resurrected.

 

In the morning,

a delicious day, already sun baked by nine

June, “in like a lion”,

jet steams, cats cradled patterns

streaked the blue backed, split of sunshine,

and I found one calf

nestled into a bower of bracken

nettled and serenaded by the marshmallow pink and white

of baby breathed hawthorn,

bordered by buttercups.

There it stayed, the whole lazy summer’s day,

nervous, ill at ease

unwilling to gambol or feed

unwilling to make hay.

 

Three farmers came

cattle calling

as the evening slipped away.

Stealthy summer sunset.

Dinas Head diminished,

shadowed

lost horizons

a fishing boat scarred by light

a duskling starshine

in the breathless bay.

 

“They’ve only been out a day or two,

everything a new sensation,

even the sunlight is new.

Don’t know grass

Nor bonded as a group.

They simply don’t understand

what it is

they’re meant to do.”

 

We herded the two runaways out of the gate

leading them lane wards

as opposed to astray

through the greened canopy

outfoxed by foxgloves

the elders floated subdued, ethereal amongst the elderflower

motes, particles, as we passed

behind Bryneithen

and into the railway sided field.

The man I walked alongside of

spoke wistfully

of those, “our friends” likewise lost,

of the ties of this small community

the roped weight of history.

And a hint, a nod perhaps,

towards the incoming stream

a Westwards eddy,

and suggested, maybe implied

the consequential claim:

fragmentation, discord, disunity.

 

In T shirt, shorts and wellies

no farmer, I,

we talked on, joked a little,

a slither of gossip, happenstance,

and yet, a sense, a fractioned hint

of difference

akin somehow, to distance.

Discontent with

the immigrant?

 

The calves were happy though.

For now,

“Let them eat cake”.

 

And then

Dusk dropped the lid

and we parted.

“Perhaps you’ll write a poem”

they ribbed.

And so,

I did.

 

 

Marc Mordey 12 7 14