A Grey Heron
To see him Majestically Crown the Tennent Canal
with ruffled, ragged white and grey plumage.
Neath Abby Ruins half silhouetting his backdrop,
the grumpy old Grandfather
of these inland Valley waterways.
Grave silent and statue still yet observing all always,
the lamenting bulrushes, his stalking ground
as he pines and worries himself slender,
slowly through the reed beds,
looking for something years ago lost,
reminiscing mournfully and fighting off
the inevitable approaching Winter.
But deep in thought always and wise I feel,
wise enough to keep his wisdom safe and sound
and let the hooting owl's take all the credit.
Until an explosion of children's voices scamper up ahead
and he lurches off in silently booming, powerful, rhythmical wing beats
like a glorious water colour momentarily dripping into life.
The Hedgerow Hedgehog
The Hedgerow Hedgehog uncurled awake slowly
stretched, yawned and smiled up at the Waxing Moon.
Then partook of its regular bum-shuffling jaunt
around it's half street and allotment territory
to do a spot of midnight slimy h'orderve hunting
whilst also gardening and pest controlling on route.
It stopped to wink friendly at the homeless Grey Cat
living quite comfortably under that shed on the corner
and to watch a Pipistrelle Bat expertly sky-fishing
various sizes of moths from the glow of a streetlamp.
Then with a full belly and a happy contented heart
it snuffled back home to its warm nest of mossy leaves.
A Clapping Woodpigeon
A Clapping Woodpigeon exploded
from the Horse Chestnut leaves
above me as I corner-turned
the golf course Hedgerow
on this 6 a.m. Summer Morning.
Once Grazing Rabbits shock upright
keenly from the dewy grass up ahead.
An Amber Fox stops to glance,
in a lazy sort of way, two fields over,
sensing no danger only spectating
for a long misty second or two.
I happily stop to listen and watch
a Green Woodpecker sporting red-cap
three quarters the way up an Oak Tree
rat-tat-tatting away with work smith bill.
Whilst Yellow Hammers burst alive
their van Gogh colourful courting
dance at Hedgerows glistening top.
I stand and sigh for a few moments
then whistle lowly to the Two Dogs
and head home for coffee and breakfast.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here: http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
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