This time of lock-down has come to visceral life for me when I turn the pages of some of the hundred notebooks on my shelves as I look out of my window at the green of my garden and my ancient trees.
These days I am
more conscious than ever of the birds, both in my trees and up in the sky:
enticing images of freedom now as I see and hear them in my confinement.
In one of my
notebooks I found this poem called The Birds written in 2002 about the different world inhabited by birds. These days I think I took for granted their sense of freedom.
Now I have resurrected re-read this poem again and have polished it just a bit.
Here it is.
A line of birds scratches its way
across the gunmetal grey
of an April afternoon.
Its waivering form begins
into a double V.
Their direction is North.
They discover their way by
following their inner tick
and escaping the sultry fog
of unseasonable warmth
above the surging bulbs.
Original version 29th December 2002
Polished April 2020