Ben Grader
06-03-2006, 04:05 AM
Talking to someone via email and it brought to mymind a poem I had written around 40 45 years ago.
The rain which beat at the tattered rose
has knocked its petals all adrift.
Thistledown blows, softly, fairylike
drifting over cornfields that are cropped and bald.
The young swallows perch like semi-breves on the wires
writing a nocturne which makes me sad.
'Alas' it says, 'Alas, the end of summer is at hand'
Went to save it when I recalled it from memory only to find another Atumn on file.
Some palmate leaves of horse chestnuts
golden brown, hang to the branches
the fruits have long been snatched
by lads, ever keen for ‘conker’ sport
from the woodland path on which they lay.
Squirrels have harvested and buried
those which were overlooked in the rank grass
and weeds, which lie along the edges of the copse.
They’ll hope to have a food reserve for winter
if they remember where their pantry was.
My booted feet stir up the rustling leaves
as I climb the hill, then I cross the field
up to the thicker wood, I raise my glasses
set them to my eyes. The muntjac deer
have long departed deeper into the trees.
They had escaped long since from some
safari park and bred, moving about
from place to place until they found
a refuge in this sheltered spot
where they are safe from man.
The Buzzard’s young have fled the nest.
In summer I had watched their flight
as copying their parents, they too
had tried to catch a wayward rabbit
running fast to dive into its hole.
Deep in the wood I hear the muntjac bark
warning his females that a stranger comes.
I freeze my motion, leaning against a tree
raising my glasses once again and see
the deer, creep silently between the trees.
A sparrow hawk, flushed from its perch
flits too, put up from where it sat
waiting for rash birds to settle, unaware
of dangers there until too late. A sudden
swoop, the clutch of talons for their fate.
The ranger’s dog comes through the shrubs
its tail wagging as it greets me as a friend
for we have often met before, my roaming
quite expected, now the man comes into sight
and says ‘The dog didn’t bark I knew ‘twas you’
We stand and chat about the place
he tells me that the badger’s sett
has been cleaned out, they have returned
from years away, a thing they often do
reclaiming their old paths and tracks.
I make a promise to myself; some night in spring
when moonlight sheds a softened glow
I’ll trek up to the hill, and watch the young
scuffling and playing on the ground before their den
until the mother takes them off to hunt.
But now the day draws in, I must depart
and set my lagging feet upon the path to home.
Tomorrow is another day, and then, I will return.
For now a whisky toddy calls me to my chair
where I will warm myself before the fire.
The rain which beat at the tattered rose
has knocked its petals all adrift.
Thistledown blows, softly, fairylike
drifting over cornfields that are cropped and bald.
The young swallows perch like semi-breves on the wires
writing a nocturne which makes me sad.
'Alas' it says, 'Alas, the end of summer is at hand'
Went to save it when I recalled it from memory only to find another Atumn on file.
Some palmate leaves of horse chestnuts
golden brown, hang to the branches
the fruits have long been snatched
by lads, ever keen for ‘conker’ sport
from the woodland path on which they lay.
Squirrels have harvested and buried
those which were overlooked in the rank grass
and weeds, which lie along the edges of the copse.
They’ll hope to have a food reserve for winter
if they remember where their pantry was.
My booted feet stir up the rustling leaves
as I climb the hill, then I cross the field
up to the thicker wood, I raise my glasses
set them to my eyes. The muntjac deer
have long departed deeper into the trees.
They had escaped long since from some
safari park and bred, moving about
from place to place until they found
a refuge in this sheltered spot
where they are safe from man.
The Buzzard’s young have fled the nest.
In summer I had watched their flight
as copying their parents, they too
had tried to catch a wayward rabbit
running fast to dive into its hole.
Deep in the wood I hear the muntjac bark
warning his females that a stranger comes.
I freeze my motion, leaning against a tree
raising my glasses once again and see
the deer, creep silently between the trees.
A sparrow hawk, flushed from its perch
flits too, put up from where it sat
waiting for rash birds to settle, unaware
of dangers there until too late. A sudden
swoop, the clutch of talons for their fate.
The ranger’s dog comes through the shrubs
its tail wagging as it greets me as a friend
for we have often met before, my roaming
quite expected, now the man comes into sight
and says ‘The dog didn’t bark I knew ‘twas you’
We stand and chat about the place
he tells me that the badger’s sett
has been cleaned out, they have returned
from years away, a thing they often do
reclaiming their old paths and tracks.
I make a promise to myself; some night in spring
when moonlight sheds a softened glow
I’ll trek up to the hill, and watch the young
scuffling and playing on the ground before their den
until the mother takes them off to hunt.
But now the day draws in, I must depart
and set my lagging feet upon the path to home.
Tomorrow is another day, and then, I will return.
For now a whisky toddy calls me to my chair
where I will warm myself before the fire.