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Bernard Davis

Birdsongs

 

On Sunday afternoons I took my father’s hand,

we walked the river Wandle’s bank,

observed anglers on their silent watch,

reeled in a different catch.

 

With ears for nets landed songs of birds,

each lively as a fish jumping

from it’s captor’s grasp. We let each quarry

dance away, it’s tune having danced into us.

 

When the stomachs fed by our ears were full

we turned for home, where birdsongs leapt,

my mother’s fingers adept at coaxing them

from a recorder’s wooden throat.

 

In the warbling thicket of our dining room

we took out the RSPB Handbook of British Birds,

matched our catch of tunes to their singers,

by comparing notes on colour, shape and

silhouettes of wings captured in flight.

 

Till the stomachs fed by our ears were settled,

and our stomachs that craved food took command.

As mother’s birdsongs from the living room subsided,

her kitchen nest oozed roasted savours in gravied hues.

Tom Higgins

Book of Memories

I look forward to the future
And at times I look back upon the past,
And I hope I'll keep my memories
For as long as my life may last,

 

And I hope that the album of my life
Will have an expanding trend,
And that my ability to refer to it
Will stay with me to the end.

 

I hope its colours never fade,
Or its bright reflections dull,
For from these is the person made
And a life can never be full

 

Unless the memory stays clear
For those remaining days,
Without fading into the mists
Of an autumnal evening's haze

 

To gradually disappear
Into a wintry fog bound Hell,
Because a person without a memory
Is merely an empty shell.

Chris Brimson

Spring Haiku

Fresh green leaves

Small and soft

Like balus hands

Christina Wadeley

The caterpillar’s cocoon

hides a metamorphic haven,

the tiny creature locked inside

embarking on its poignant mission.

 

The cocoon’s shell hardens

each new day

protecting the transformation within,

the life in its womb has far to go

before its new cycle can begin.

 

Then after many micro miracles

unfolding in its seams,

the refuge starts to split

and reveals a butterfly unwrapping fragile wings.

 

As I watch nature’s splendour

I delight in its infinite glory,

because I am like a butterfly

emerging with a new life story.

 

My mind can sometimes be troublesome

causing pain, distress and worry,

but I am slowly conquering my anguish

and will flourish, reborn as me.

 

And also just like a butterfly

my journey’s just begun

I will transform and re-emerge

from a cygnet to a swan

 

although I stagger through life’s maze

of sorrow and dejection,

I will survive, I will endure

and I will overcome

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