Astern came a gull,
in cold gust, above
the sunny waves,
and below the water
her corpse can’t rest,
she’s driftin’ and shiftin’
on sea floor, and she’ll
rest in Bosses good time,
but for now follows on with gull.
Young ‘ uns are Kittiwakes,
captains harsh to their crew
return as storm petrels,
other soul-birds are souls
of drowned mariners who seek
prayers of the living,
or devil-birds that flit over
corpses of the lost.
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STOLEN
Blindworm asleep Nightingale
plucks out its eye to partner his other
places it into his hollow socket
to attend Wren’s Wedding.
Blindworm vows
to catch nightingale asleep
to snatch back its eye.
So nightingale vows
to sing night and day
and stay awake.
BORROWED
” Please can I borrow your eyes?”
Asks the blind nightingale
of the excellent eyed blindworm
” I’ve been invited to faerie wedding,
and don’t want to look foolish.”
After the nightingale sees bright
colours, red, green and gold
of the faerie occasion, he tells
blindworm, “I cannot return
these worlds of light, but will
sing to you, my friend, night and day.”
BEGGED
Blindworm felt the waters rise
around him and feared to drown.
He looked up to see Nightingale
sat on a branch all of a shudder.
“Why do you cry, my friend?”
says worm to bird.
“I wish to go to Faerie Wedding,
but have no eyes to see it.”
says bird to worm.
“I beg you, take my excellent eyes.”
as I would rather be blind than die.”
says worm to bird
“And I shall sing to you night and day.”
says bird to worm.
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At creation Boss says to all birds,
“Excavate all the hollows,
release water to make
seas, rivers and pools.”
All obeyed, except Pickatree.
who sat still, would not move,
or flitted between branches.
“It is dirty work. I can’t
soil this bright golden coat,
or silver shine of my legs.”
And the Boss replies
“If that’s fact, from now on,
tha coat is sooty black.
Tha’ll only peck at wood,
Tha claws’ll climb bark upwards,
so tha open beak sup only rain,
and tha yaffles only heard
afore downpours.”
Alternative version
PICKATREE AT START OF WORLD
At start of world a mass of birds,
excavate all hollows,
loose water into them
as to make fresh and salt
seas, rivers and pools.”
All except Pickatree.
who sits still, will not move,
or flits between branches.
“It’s dirty work. I can’t
soil this bright golden coat,
or silver shine of my legs.”
All on a sudden Pickatree finds
his coat is sooty black.
he can only peck at wood,
his claws’ll only climb bark upwards,
so his open beak sups only rain,
and his yaffles only heard
afore downpours.
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Late sister who lived life on the wing,
a wild, rollercoaster ride
resurrected as a Swift,
every late spring, laughbringer
lobbed black anchor
across blue skies,
arrive after 4,000 miles,
from Africa,
or from the dead.
Seem to live a dozen lives in one,
heartlifter,
scream diabolic frenzy,
busy as you bank,
twist, turn,
all lifeflight,
feed, mate, sleep
in hurtle curves,
in wingshiver,
glide,
wingfizz,
wing glow,
nest under the eaves
in a shallow cup
of spat together
grasses, leaves,
feathers snatched on the wing
in
scytheflight,
needletail,
snatch insects,
spiderlings,
store as bolus
in your throat pockets.
When rains come,
you and partner skirt
weather’s edge
for days,
your kids
Tibetan monks
enter state of stupor
until your return.
Fledged, your kids
launch into air,
spinetails,
and may not land
for eighteen months.
depart at Summer’s height,
for Africa’s heat,
or your graveside.
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When darkness covers the earth
it is my wings stretched out to dry,
a temporary crucifix.
When I fold them into myself
I let the sun seed the soil,
watch tide flence the shore.
I eat death voraciously.
Gobble it up into this black maw
till there is nothing left.
When I hunt, darkness dives into me.
I train fishermen to use me,
put me on a leash.
I am mostly silent, worse than death,
and will swallow you whole, head first, one day.
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I. hawked up, gossed out,
a hard pellet of sin:
jealousy’s scapula of shrew,
greed’s jawbone of mole.
envy’s rib of rat,
lust’s vertebrae of mouse,
pride’s chaetae of earthworm,
sloth’s hindbone of chiffchaff.
Wished a sparrowhawk’s
stomach for gripe,
acidity to dissolve most
bones of disquiet.
Small white live larvae
of clothes moths feed on
the compacted murder
of fur and feather.
II. Dissecting pellets of sin
How to discover the sins?
Half fill a pot with water
add few drops of disinfectant.
Place pellet in pot. Soak it
until it sinks Take it out,
blot off excess water.
Use tweezers and cocktail sticks
tease the sins apart.
Careful as you go so nothing is missed.
Remove bones or other items,
clean them up, place to dry
on newspaper.
Note the basic material,
or matrix, of the sin pellet.
Is it mainly fur or feathers,
or something else?
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You see me,
immaculate ash-grey plumage,
twin black wing bars,
white rump patch.
Everybody says they’ve Scottish
ancestors don’t they? Lived
and some of us still do in caves,
swoop through crash of spray,
shy. You’ll not believe us.
Me grandad carried dispatches
in wartime amid bombs and bullets,
his guano were used for gunpowder.
Explosive, he were. Now they cull
us for our white graffiti
on posh high rises. Say
we spread disease, too many
of us. Say we bully songbirds.
“Rats with wings!”
Can you spare a crumb?
Small morsel and I’ll help
your soul to Heaven.
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Once a lass craved by a lad.
He lusted after her.
She is cold,
as he forces himself on her,
He cuts out tongue,
to stop her gab.
Sliced by his blade, he holds it with pincers.
Her tongue’s root quivers
the rest lies on dark soil, writhes
and trembles, searches
for some sign of her.
She weaves the fact in purple design
on a white background, so her boss
sees what her mutilater has done
and moved by her rape
molds her into a feathered thing, warm brown back, pale front, speckled with lines of dark arrows that point to her head, a tinge of golden brown on her breast, belly almost white with a few small dark spots,
a bird who embroiders the fact of her pain in the cup of her nest,
twigs, grass and moss, cemented
thickly lined with mud, dung, rotten wood, mixed with leaves.
At the start she could only
call his name, nothing else
in short bursts twice,
clear and flute-like.
She is a dirsh, thrusher,
thirstle, throggle.
Come icy ground she smashes
the shells of snails
against a favourite stone,
picks at the foot,
as at a swollen tongue,
swallows the meat.
The muscle and fat of her songs
cure sickness and convulsions.
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is your next door neighbour.
A cliché of ordinary. “Nice”.
Inoffensive. Doesn’t pry,
but says “Hello”, “Goodbye”.
Horror is behind their eye,
behind closed doors,
smiles and shakes your hand,
gossips of work and kids.
One day the horror stands
above you. Your other
neighbours are warm on top
of you. They could be dead.
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I.
Stream and hill follow my contours. This beak is a high jut of rock.
I command the veer of rivers.
My black wing tips
are the storm’s edges.
My gyre makes the gust.
My white feathers, clouds.
Rain is the pelt of water
off my pinions and claws.
One of my eyes is the sun.
The other eye is the moon.
Gravity is my fall.
Death,my talons.
I deprive young
of their Mam and Dad.
The unwary, unwatchful,
unaware and weak
are morsels for my young
that turn in the world of my eye.
II.
I pass
. the dead
to my wife
. in
flight.
. Two rocks
. bridged
. by red sinew.
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The Wombwell Rainbow 