An early morning walk down our lane in the December snows of last year - a Wren sings loudly from the briar by the field gate. Another churrs angrily from moss covered stones haphazardly filling a gap in the hedge ...
As the January sun rises over the wooded ramparts of the ancient hill fort I flush a couple of Woodcock from the frost free shadow of a fallen crab ... a Tawny Owl calls from deeper in the woods ...
Birds From My Kitchen Window ... I rush from window - to window - to window, as birds fly quickly from one feeder to another, chased off one by a Magpie, giving way prudently to the Woodpecker as he flies down from the nearby Poplar; ousted from another by a horde of hungry Starling, flying in from the fields ...
Carefully parting Willow, Bramble and bronzed Bracken fronds that rustled and crackled in the winter frost I could see my secret lake ... well large pond really - an old disused Flight Pond ... a few Mallard quacked and splashed noisily; a couple of Tufted Duck circled warily in the middle while on the far bank a pair of Teal rested, blending well with the pondside rushes ... a Coot called from somewhere in the reeds - well hidden - shatteringly loud ...
Haibun writing - I’ve come to realise that the core of my writing is akin to the prose poem form of Haibun. Written in the nature tradition. [...] A pair of Bullfinch light up a solitary Ash tree - soft glow light bulbs of carmine red and cinnamon pink. They call softly to each other. Their rumps as white as the snow. [...]
