Sometimes,
early on
a misty morning,
the tangled threads
of our lives
seem to form
a pattern.
But the Sun
soon puts a
stop to that
wishful thinking.

Sometimes,
early on
a misty morning,
the tangled threads
of our lives
seem to form
a pattern.
But the Sun
soon puts a
stop to that
wishful thinking.
Few things more pleasant,
in old age or young,
than sitting on a hill,
on a clear, almost frosty
morning, mist filling the
valleys, and listening
to a butcher bird
song notes
cascading through
the silent air,
while your dog sits,
quietly, beside you.
A breath
of fresh
air in
Spring is
full of
pollen.
Cabbage White
butterflies
seem boring
to me. All
exactly
the same in
their looks and
behaviour.
But I guess
they don’t seem
like that to
each other.
Every day,
somewhere in the
world, billions
of birds sit on
their nests, content
and confident
about the eggs
that they cherish.
I hate the
sound of a
rabbit, at
night, screaming
in the jaws
of a fox.
But I can’t
hear the fox
cubs crying
with hunger.
The Choughs
are back
doing some
gardening for
me, and the
sight of their
ungainly walk
and their happy
family warms
the cockles of
my cold winter
heart.
Once I saw
on the ground
under trees
blue fragments
of a small
egg. But were
they from an
egg that fell
or one that
had hatched?
I didn’t
know just what
I should feel.
Plumes of smoke
on a cold
Winter’s day
bring thoughts
of warmth and
community
and human
busyness and
achievement.
Plumes of smoke
on a hot
Summer’s day
bring thoughts
of destruction
and terror
and loss and
anger and
failure.
Birds in pairs,
galahs,
magpies,
rosellas,
butcher birds,
crows,
peewits,
birds in pairs,
thinking of
Spring.