THE EVENING SACRIFICE

Swifts, as sharp
as ebony boomerangs,
fling themselves around
above the tall pines;

bats are doing barrel rolls,
setting themselves up for
serious back problems
in later life.

There's carnage in
the evening air - ugly insects
are going down like flies.
Crows are daylight bombers

heading back to base, but swifts
with their long-range tanks
can stay on the wing all night,
picking off defenceless things.

Like a plague of boils,
molehills disfigure
our lawn; on baby marrows
slugs are itinerant scabs.

Indoors the oven sets a lamb's
body-part a-crackling, the fork
slides in, the juddering knife
whacks off strip after strip.

On the sideboard squats
that rancid goatskin lamp
some accursed auntie brought
us back from Egypt as a gift,

while soft internal organs perform
their duty without question:
dispensing hydrochloric acid,
getting rid of the evidence.

from Wild Star Flight
first published in Anon One

ROSLIN GLEN

A seed, a shoot, a leaf
A scrap, a sheet, a sheaf

A rumpus, a twitter, a wren
A loner, a saunter, a glen

A branch, a leap, a flight
A squirrel, a squirrel, a fight

A rock, a face, a shape
A tiger, an ogre, an ape

A stone, a stream, a slip
A shoe, a sock, a drip

A fox, a scent, a prowl
A sunset, a silence, an owl

A path, a plan, a way
A wood, a world, a day

A page, a quire, a ream
A tree, a thought, a dream

Bird Chat At Evening

I

I am Blackbird.
This is my busy time,
if you'll excuse me -
I've got all these leaves
to sort through
before nightfall.

What am I looking for?
A worm as long as a snake
a grub as fat as a catkin
and something else -
I can't remember what, but
I'll know when I've found it.
What are you looking for?

II

I am Robin. Blackbird
is my cousin. I know you!
You have been kind to us
in the past - it's all here
in your file, which makes
fascinating reading, by the way.

I'm always close at hand
in case you need me.
I spy, with my little eye,
the sadness in your heart
and bring small messages
from lost loved ones.
Is there to be any reply at all?

The Flamingo

Flamingos dress in fetching pink
but can be rather glum,

Their legs being made of plastic tubes
and bits of chewing gum.

from An Absird Book of Burds
illustrated by John Fardell whose children's novel -

The Seven Professors of the Far North

was published by Faber in 2004

THE ORIGINAL (SELKIRK)
AND THE ALTERNATIVE GRACE

(with apologies to the Bard)

Some hae meat and canna eat
And some wad eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

But some hate meat and girn and weep,
Resisting all coercion,
So bless the tatties, bless the neeps
And the vegetarian version.

Then filled wi' fruits o' field and vine
And feelin fairlie frisky,
The One who water turned to wine,
We'd ask to bless the whisky.

THE POET WRITES HOME

He has nothing much to write home about.
He writes home about nothing much.
Nothing he writes home is about much.
He writes home much about nothing.

Nothing much he writes is about home.
Much he writes about home is nothing.
Nothing he writes about home is much.
He writes nothing much about home.

He writes: 'Much about home is nothing.'
'Home is about nothing much,' he writes.
'Nothing about home is much,' he writes.
'Home is about nothing!' he writes much.

Home's about: 'Nothing he writes is much.'
Home's about: 'Much he writes is nothing.'
Home's about: 'He writes nothing much,
he's nothing much to write home about.'

all poems by Richard Medrington