Badgers have dug and whirligigs spin
We don’t have a name for the wind,
it’s just a warm breeze
Poplars use it to flutter and rustle
Tussock sedges bow away
Canary grass whispers on it
Thistledown floats on it
The nettles here don’t sting
but fear the thistles.
Gypsywort roams
the sun comes out.
The oak appreciates the dry marsh
but it will get wet feet.
A well worn path passes rushes
Cronk cronk high up
Unseen under the canopy
Badgers have evidently gorged
Sallows are crumbling and
Brambles are clutching
Acorns cadge lifts from Jays to old pastures
Last year’s uneaten ones are little trees already
A shopping trolley and bicycle reef
mid river sanctuary
But the buzzard cries
Wafts of sickly balsam drift then
Faint whistle, a Bullfinch then
Silence
Silence
And silence
I listen intently then
Cetti’s
Rubbish and a cat.
Crossing the urban fringe
I’m done with the marsh for today
Just the goldfinches to charm me home.
~A Marshian guest post~
Rural Reading 