beady blue eyes (12/Sept/18)

like swallows or starlings the jackdaws balance on power line in uncomfortable rows as though it’s not quite in their nature to do so, but unlike the swallows and starlings they’re envious of their aerial attires and skill in the air, swallows the acrobats, starlings the dazzlers, both unaware of banquet of envious eyes looking on and wishing, wishing, why they weren’t born a swallow or starling and instead just a jackdaw, the colours of shadows and all too soon sporting tinges of grey as though aging before ones time, though their beady blue eyes are a sight to behold as little they know that blue eyes are rare in this avian world, almost but not quite unique… and they balance quiet well but not quite as deft as swallows or starlings with their delicate claws as opposed to the slightly more wrinkly digits adorning the jackdaws legs… the jack’ is an envious bird as can be heard in their infernal squabbling during the day they crackle away and come the night the gossip on every complaint while they wait and they wait and they wait balanced on power lines, waiting and waiting some more until… well, until none of them knows what happens and drives them back on the air in a race to the rookery (see, it’s not even named after them… o the poor jackdaw!) to play musical branches once again a free-for-all frenzy and made even worse when a headwind’s determined to foil their best-laid plotting and scheming, most unlike the swallows and starlings to whom the jackdaws see have got their collective acts together… or have they?… the swallow who constantly worries about eating enough and not eating too much for a thousand and more miles of migration south through paroxysms of weather, sportsmen with guns, wind determined to blow them off course…. and the starling, safer in numbers than out of their own and suitably small for a sparrowhawks beak, or even a kestrels, a buzzards, a magpie, maybe an occasional crow and even when they find succour among the tall reeds in their hundreds and thousands there’s weasels and ferrets, foxes and cats and even a bittern or heron ready to gobble them up so…… so the jackdaws look on unaware that maybe, just maybe it could be much worse……… but, but why couldn’t they have a nice song to sing!

© 2018 robert greig

scraps (2/Sept/18)

it’s one of those days when all the colours have been drained away leaving a coating of grey…

… there, the best line I wrote yesterday, all the rest uses the word grey a lot and not much else so I won’t bore you with the padding…

… a magpie of crackling outside the doors, yes, as I sit here writing these very words… what came first, the magpie or the words?… don’t answer, it’s rhetorical, and obvious… can’t work out what it wants, I don’t speak ‘pie

.. well, yesterday was a day for news… what a day for news… Costa Coffee has been sold to Coke-a-Cola, sadly another cafe struck from my go-to list… Neil Young has remarried (aka singer, musician, CSNY et al, part-time grump) to Daryl Hannah the actress as it happens, didn’t see that one coming but then again that’s Neil for you, unpredictable to say the least but undoubtedly living to the full… a painting of Nigel Farage, the right-wing political extremist, erstwhile leader of the far-right, anti-European, anti-anyone not deemed “English” party UKIP (aka United Kingdom Independence Party) and incidentally Trump apologist and sycophant was included in a charity art auction and succeeded in raising a grand total of… zilch, zero, nothing, sod all… not a single bid of interest not even in the name of charity did anyone want to sully their wallets nor suffer a charity to receive hand-outs from a representation from the proceeds of what is no better than criminal being one of the instigators in why we are where we are now with regard to Brexit, a UK in tatters where bitterness, bile, hate thy neighbour, racism and division rule this stained unpleasant land… so every cloud does have a silver lining after all……

… anyway, enough of that, three bits of news a day, has to be enough surely… actually I’ve read and listened to far more but we’d be here forever and I for one, and I’m sure more so yourself, wouldn’t want that and have better things to do like clip your toenails or watch paint dry…

… I’m coming to the end of the current novel I’m reading and have slowed down hoping to make it last, I don’t want it to end… a fool’s errand I know but still… I’m sure my next one will be just as good just I haven’t decided what it’ll be yet…

… I’ve probably wrote enough for today, a Sunday, a day of rest, apparently… I find Sunday’s a bit of a chameleon, hiding in plain sight…

© 2018 robert greig

true north (31/August/18)

over the sea and far away
adrift amidst the salt and spray…
a tiny boat did warp and weft
the waves of peaks and troughs
to find itself without a clue
whichever way the wind blew
over the sea and far away
adrift a piece of wood and sail…

“true north
true north!”
the drifter cries
but only gannets hear
“where art thou
true north?”
he sighs
to lapping waves
their crumpling a lullaby
against his hoarse refrains.

over the sea and far away
no one heard him pray
but the gannets burning white
stabbing through a silence stealing
sound until it didn’t make a sound.

© 2018 robert greig

 

… welcome, to the poem at the end of the world…… or August, whichever comes first… … …