Birds

Poem 241 – When I Stopped to Actually Listen

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Walking amidst the trees I hear:
blackcaps and great tits, chiffchaffs and wrens,
weaving a three dimensional tapestry.
Confined, the blackbird’s song frees me,
widens my perception, whilst the goldfinch
grants me wings amongst the leaves.
Picking out particular voices,
the choir starts to swell and I’m
enrapt by their musicality.

Recently I’ve been trying to learn to recognise and name birdsong. With the help of a phone app, this has opened my awareness to the choir around me. What was generic birdsong has become the glorious conversation of a varied throng of birds: an ear for the particular has enriched the appreciation of the whole.
(30.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Andrea Lightfoot on Unsplash

Poem 240 – A New Day

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The subtle scent of freshly woken grass
and crispness of the sky arrest me as
the door is opened on the dawning day.
Sparrows, already up, are catching the
proverbial early worm and the morning’s gossip;
the air is thickened with excited chatter.
Jostling students join them, calling out
greetings to newcomers in their growing flock.
I remember being in their number.
But now is not for melancholy thoughts or
nostalgic longing for carefree childhood days.
I wave goodbye to my departing wife
and note the soft cool air that curls around
my naked ankles; I’m still in my pajamas,
time to wash the night away and dress.
Cat Stevens comes to mind and Etch-a-Sketch
where with one swipe the old is wiped away
and the new is ushered in.

The smell of dew dampened grass greeted me as my wife left for work this morning, bringing with it the fading refrain of Morning Has Broken sung at a recent funeral.
(18.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sergio Otoya on Unsplash

Poem 223 – Boxing Day Anecdote

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Catching up on poems from the last few days…

A little weary, out of rhythm,
we rise to scattered festive relics.
An anecdote is told about
a former poet laureate.
Required walking to clear our heads
and settled Christmas lethargy.
We stop to feed Egyptian and Canadian
geese and opportunistic pigeons.
Back home it’s time for lunch, comprised of
yesterday’s offcuts before
a most unexpected reprise,
“You know that story? I missed a line,
‘I woke besides the ugliest woman…'”

A true story…
(26.12.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 193 – A River Dreams

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The Lea meanders, ambles on her course,
and in her brooding sleep she meditates.
Above, along, aside, reflections rise,
a flock of dreams, take wing and, graceful, flies:

Cormorant, cuckoo, coot, moorhen,
great crested and cousin little grebe.

Black headed gull, common gull, common tern,
reed and sedge warbler, grey wagtail.

Egyptian goose, greylag goose, Canada goose,
grey heron and little egret.

Mallard, wigeon, goldeneye, goosander, gadwall,
silver wood, shoveler, teal and tufted ducks.

Hobby, buzzard, red kite, kestrel,
sparrowhawk, barn owl, little owl.

Great spotted and green woodpeckers,
allusive kingfisher, bashful bittern.

As a child I dreamt of reaching high
until the sunrise pulled me to and moored me.
Detached, released, unlike that earthbound son
her dreamborn flights of fantasy soar freely.

Yesterday I finished reading Robert MacFarlane’s magnificent prose poem Ness. This, and the lists found in other writings of his, inspired this, as of course do our many sightings as we have walked alongside our neighbour, the slumbering Lea. The photo is of an adult cormorant I managed to snap in 2019: a favourite bird, comical, haughty and surprisingly graceful.
(29.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 180 – Riverbank Sketches: The Great Crested Grebe

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With oriental flare,
the grebe attracts attention.
Her sublime looks and slender
lines are carefully honed.
Exotic, not like other birds,
she owns her stage.
Checking all eyes are on
her, paparazzi ready,
she poses
                to applause.

I don’t get to see these so often as other birds, but always appreciate them when I do. So distinct, they demand attention.
(30.03.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Bengt Nyman, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 179 – Riverbank Sketches III: The Heron

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Stood by his office window, the silent
partner waits, serene and straight.
Beneath his greying brows, two keen
and wizened eyes, gaze out.

He waits. And waits. And waits. Until
incisively he strikes; a single
dart with ballet dancer poise.
Replete, he struts away.

So often we almost walk past these ‘old men’ of the river without noticing they’re there. Such graceful birds.
(29.03.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 178 – Riverbank Sketches II: The Coot

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New born, an angry punk
with shaven head, bright red,
shrill, urgent and demanding.

Nearby the parent swims.
Respectability
acquired, grown-up, it hides its
defiant past beneath
a comic exterior
of bloated feet and drab
commuter dress of black
and white.

But stray too close and watch
the rebel wake. With gun
fire spray of clacking beak
and furied charge across
the water, this crazy street
fighter fights mean not clean,
the threats soon flee now fly.
Behind with arms aloft
it cries its battle cry,
uncouth obscenities
of bloody consequence
should you once more defy
its patch. Return? You’ll die…

The violence is only momentary,
the furious flapping soon fades,
replaced by a tentative cease-fire.
With peace restored you might
reflect the scene just seen
was more a case of Benny
Hill than Al Capone.
But my advice is keep
this to yourself. She’s watching you.

I’ve always enjoyed looking out for coffee since reading Arthur Ransom’s ‘Coot Club’. Living here, I’ve really got to know them, watching their life cycles and displays thoroughout the year. Bonkers and loveable.
(28.03.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Charles J. Sharp, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 176 – Riverbank Sketches I: The Cormorant

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He holds his head up high
to look down upon us.
His curled haughty lips
suggest amusement.
I doubt he’s ever glimpsed
his own reflection in
the ripples – unless his smirk
disguises self-denial.

The cormorant’s smile caught my attention as we walked along the Lea yesterday. I’ve grown to love these comical birds, so graceful in the water, yet so clumsy looking in the air or on the bank wings outstretched to dry.
(24.03.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by JJ Harrison licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license

Poem 117 – The Heron

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The heron lumbers on
This prehistoric throwback
Envelopes with its wings
Turning the world to shades
Of grey forboding shadows
When passing overhead

Aloft it struggles to
Maintain its altitude
But on the river bank
Transformed and elegant
It perches, patient, wise
With poised anticipation

Its stillness is unmatched
The clock hand paused
…until
The moment of decision
The throwing of the dart
A single precise strike
Efficient in its catch

Walking home from our Easter service a heron flew over, its struggles a clear contrast to its normal elegance.
(17.04.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 74 – Perfectly Formed

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We stroll along the muddy banks
Mid-January Sunday afternoon
Opposing the New River’s waters
Breath catching in the growing gloom
Peripheral vision glimpses movement
A twitch descending accompanied by
A plop, the sound of water applauding
I turn but did my vision lie?
Scanning the water I seek the cause
But only ripples linger on
Alluding to that past disturbance
The water bare, the culprit’s gone
Look over there five metres past!
Its long beak piercing through the surface
And bobbing on the waters cold
A speckled cormorant emerges
It briefly turns acknowledging
Our passing presence, two chilly guests
Before descending once again
An artful dive into the depths
I marvel at its perfect form
So naturally adapted to
The river life when mud hinders
The ease by which we pass on through

Yesterday afternoon we managed a brief walk along the New River as it leaves Cheshunt before it got dark and were delighted to see a juvenile cormorant fisher in the water alongside us, something we haven’t seen before.
(17.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022