BIRD OF ILL-OMEN
I've lost count of the number of poems I've written about birds. It's a subject I keep returning to again and again.
Garden birds, of course, are a source of constant joy and living close to the sea ensures that we encounter an abundance of coastal species ranging from snowy egrets to oyster-catchers in their distinctive black and white livery.
There is a kestrel that frequents the granite cliff-face adjoining our property, an owl that hunts in the narrow lane and a noisy gang of magpies, whose coarse sniggers can be heard coming from a nearby conifer.
Crows, too, can sometimes be seen around Bordeaux but, for some inexplicable reason, these birds fill me with dread.
There's something ominous in their baleful presence that seems to stir a memory in me of a frightening childhood experience concerning these sinister birds.
CROW
An old grey crow perches on a granite wall.
Its prehistoric stare
unnerves me.
In those unfathomable eyes
I see
nothing discernible,
only vertiginous darkness.
It hardly seems afraid
when I return its look
but hops from foot to foot
as though to say
this is my wall, this is my wall ...
so I retreat.
From farther off, I pause to look again.
There it remains,
in silhouette,
stiff as a sentry,
with murderous, malignant eye,
camouflaged blade,
assassin’s cloak.
Garden birds, of course, are a source of constant joy and living close to the sea ensures that we encounter an abundance of coastal species ranging from snowy egrets to oyster-catchers in their distinctive black and white livery.
There is a kestrel that frequents the granite cliff-face adjoining our property, an owl that hunts in the narrow lane and a noisy gang of magpies, whose coarse sniggers can be heard coming from a nearby conifer.
Crows, too, can sometimes be seen around Bordeaux but, for some inexplicable reason, these birds fill me with dread.
There's something ominous in their baleful presence that seems to stir a memory in me of a frightening childhood experience concerning these sinister birds.
CROW
An old grey crow perches on a granite wall.
Its prehistoric stare
unnerves me.
In those unfathomable eyes
I see
nothing discernible,
only vertiginous darkness.
It hardly seems afraid
when I return its look
but hops from foot to foot
as though to say
this is my wall, this is my wall ...
so I retreat.
From farther off, I pause to look again.
There it remains,
in silhouette,
stiff as a sentry,
with murderous, malignant eye,
camouflaged blade,
assassin’s cloak.
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