Sunday 24 September 2017

Rooks

Dear Reader,

 




                                                                                               Rooks


The rook is similar in size or slightly smaller than the carrion crow, with black feathers often showing a blue or bluish-purple sheen in bright sunlight.  The feathers in the head, neck and shoulders are particularly dense and silky.  The legs and feet are generally black and the bill grey-black.  For food the rook predominately eats earthworms and insect larvae which it finds by probing the ground with its strong bill. It also eats grain, small amounts of fruit, small mammals, acorns and small birds and their young.  In urban sites, human food scraps are taken from rubbish dumps and street, usually in the early hours when it is relatively quiet.  Rooks nest in flocks at the top of trees.  Branches and twigs are broken off, very rarely picked up from the ground, although as many are likely to be stolen from nearby nests as are collected from trees.   Eggs are usually 3-5 in number and appear by the end of February or early March and both adults feed the young.

                                                                              *
                                                                                  

Rooks

I was fourteen
when I first heard
the call of the rooks
caw-cawing
their eerie cries.

From a Cornish cottage garden
I walked down through
dark woods to the beach,
a remote place,
just dunes, sand, the sea
and me, a confused, angry teenager,
with the rooks caw-cawing in my ears
disturbing my thoughts.

Even now, in later years,
whenever I hear whispers from the wind,
or sea lapping over large grey stones
ever forward, ever backward,
glimpse a faraway horizon
and see twilight descending
darkening the sky,
the rooks in large black groups
flying high towards
their evening bed
cawing, cawing, cawing,
my heart misses a beat
and an unexplained sadness
overcomes me.

                                                                                    *

I am going to Dorset next week so shall be able to let you know how bothersome the seagulls are, and whether they attack me for my egg sandwich.

With best wishes, Patricia







Sunday 17 September 2017

For You, Everyman

Dear Reader,




                                                                                     Allotments

Dear Reader,

I see that the Charity Commission has supported a recommendation which could make many thousands of community allotment plots lost across the nation. These allotments were transferred to parish councils in 1895, called  "allotments for the labouring poor."  But the Charity Commission has decided that allotments no longer fulfilled the purpose of relieving poverty, and they should now be sold.

Allotments have been in existence for hundreds of years with evidence pointing back to Anglo-Saxon times.  In 1939 there were 819,000 allotment plots cultivated.  Based on experience in the First World War the government immediately called on allotments again, to help with food supplies.  Another half a million plots were created.   This was coined the "Dig for Victory" campaign by the press and the slogan was adopted by the government.  The plots were created anywhere possible, and parks and recreational areas were once more dug up to feed Britain.  Even some of London's Royal Parks were dug including Hyde Park, St. James's Park and Kensington Gardens.  There were even allotments in the moat of the Tower of London.

My daughter, Jessica and a friend, have an allotment producing lots of wonderful vegetables and fruit for their families. I think it would be terribly sad if these allotment sites were sold, for whatever reason.  They bring a great sense of fulfillment to their owners, who work in the fresh air, make friends and produce marvellous food for both their families, neighbours and friends. 

                                                                            *

For You, Everyman

My smile is for you.
Yes, you, the man on the omnibus,
You, the woman ion the crowd,
You, the small child playing in the dust,
You, the homeless, the tramp unbowed,
You, in the business suit, you in kaftan,
You, the tall, you, the short.

Yes, You, Everyman.

The exchanged smile
acknowledges shared humanity
in this fleeting recognition.
No words needed.

                                                                          *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 10 September 2017

Miracle

Dear Reader,


                                                                                    Swallows


Since I wrote this blog a month ago, very sadly my husband of thirty years has died. We had been out for a picnic lunch, had a short walk on this sunny August day, then I left him watching the cricket on the television in his favourite chair.  I found him passed away half an hour later. 

No one told me what grief was like - it comes in great waves overwhelming me, and I hope that time will make this less terrible, as people say it will.  I shall continue to write the blog as I know he would have wanted me to.

From John Clare's journal, 1824  (Northants) September 10th.

'The swallows are flocking together in the skies ready for departing and a crowd has dropt to rest on the walnut tree where they twitter as if they were telling their young stories of their long journey to cheer and check fears.'

Swallows must be amongst the most popular birds - their arrival each spring in the northern hemisphere indicates the onset of summer.  Swallows are easily recognised by their slender bodies, long pointed wings and forked tails; martins tend to have much less forked tails. All swallows are strongly migratory making many journeys of several thousand miles a year.  They migrate by stopping frequently en route, unlike other passerines.   Before crossing the Sahara Desert or the Mediterranean Sea they will fuel for several days to ensure they have enough fat for the crossing.  During migration, and in their winter quarters, birds will gather in large roosts, particularly in reedbeds and some types of crop for the night.

                                                                        *

Miracle

Rich in England's spring
cowparsely entrancing
in dog-rosed hedge,
the fecund earth lush green,
a baby swallow
hatches in a Suffolk barn,
to the cries of gulls
flying over mudflats,
over sea-lavender.

This small bird grows
embracing our summer warmth,
swooping on insects caught
above rolling grasslands.
It dips and tumbles gracefully,
trouble-free.

But what instinct tells of winter's cold?
This bird, hand-sized, will
fly over the Pyrenees,
thirst through the parched Sahara,
soar and glide on trade winds,
south to The Cape of Africa
drawn, inexplicably, to the heat
of the southern sun.

In early spring does
this swallow's courageous heart
grow restless, homesick for
a Suffolk barn?
Is it a miracle that some force
of nature returns this minute bird
to its birth-nest by the English sea?
Who knows, but it seems so to me.

                                                                          *

With very best wishes, Patricia