edges pull together, coalesce into beak and claw and feather
black energy takes form
These black beauties are making themselves known. They peck at the edges of the garden, throwing decaying leaves across the driveway. They peck in the guttering, throwing clumps of mucky sludge onto the deck. And they peck at my kitchen window.
Last weekend, there was a tapping at the window. I didn’t realise what it was at first, then one of the cats started looking out the window making that strange chattering, chirruping noise, and I thought, “ah – a bird”. A minute later the pecking noise came again, but I wasn’t quick enough to see who was there. And then – at a different window directly opposite me – a bird started tapping. It seemed to be almost hovering – head bobbing back and forward to tap the glass – wings outstretched. I stepped forward – it looked up, then flew away.
What was its message? Did it have one? Perhaps it was simply a curious youngster intrigued by its own reflection?
I don’t need to know.
What I love is the connection – the bird-world visiting.
And this day – this first day of spring – I feel the dark of winter withdrawing.
It condenses into seed and bud and bird – ready to release its energy into a bright new season.
The sky is pale and grey, not heavy, but flat and low.
The world is shallow, horizontal, with little space to breathe,
except in spaces cleared by flurries of warm wind.
Sparrows visit, fearless, curious thieves,
crumbs disappearing at the speed of flight.
A magpie swoops in, a botanic priest to correct the masses.
A large golden dog steps forward and they take to the air.
The roses are every colour from white to peach, cerise to ruby,
some freshly opened, some over-blown.
Stopping at the climbing roses,
and drawing a branch close to breathe in the perfume,
a conversation approaches, full of soft “-sh-sh-“ sounds,
the sound of the breeze and these dark, blood-red blooms.
This is the beginning of a longer piece based on notes taken on 19 December 2017. Its taken me a while to feel that I’m beginning to understand how this wants to be written. But this feels right, and I’ll persevere with the rest…its not always an easy process.
(and in the meantime – imagine a photograph of bird footprints…I’m working on it)
I feel thoughts circling
words waiting to be touched
the birds waiting to land
who have always been with me
just out of sight
only approaching from the side
when I’m looking ahead
or looking back
or when I’m still
eyes closed, mind open, listening
then they come
black birds of the imagination
bones bleached white in memory
feathers full of dreams
songs and claws and tails and wings
they strut and hop across the page
leaving spiky footprints, unbound symbols
runes of divine connection
or gently, they lower one wing
to deceive, or to start over
brushing the page clean
sometimes, they are so sure of their song
they stab with their beak
straight through, and pin it to the page
all I can ever do
is trace a line from the edge of one footprint to the next
and trust in the story
they want told