Glory of Glad: The Avian Odes

Gloom Breaker – an ode on the tale of the heart-healing power of the songs of the birds of Rhiannon

I

At dim-lit dawn on Platform 1 in sombre throng 
we stand forlorn in flat, sense-numb routine 
until from trackside trees bright breaks the redbreast song: 
clear, lucent water in a crystal stream 
We tend to think that we’ll not hear 
such music at this time of year 
yet chiffchaff, thrush and finch brave Winter’s squall 
Untensing, in my mental eye 
I spread my wings; I rise and fly 
upon the soothing sound set free, and then recall 

II

how Branwen’s hope lay likewise in her feathered friend 
as she in miniature set down her news: 
‘Come soon! I, Queen of Eire am by brute force detained 
Your sister, Bran, they torture and abuse’ 
She ring-wise rolls her chosen words 
and gently takes the docile bird’s 
frail form and round a tiny leg she ties 
the note. A kiss, to wish it well 
then through the window of her cell 
releases it and skyward, swift the starling flies 

III

It lands, it sings, they read, they sail, but sail in vain: 
A fire claims her child – she can’t but grieve  
and though Bran’s fleet a wood had seemed upon the main 
Just queen and seven soldiers live to leave  
Eleven leagues from their departure 
Branwen dies of broken heart. 
So on in gravest grief the Seven sail  
Yet, over the ensuing years 
they’re healed in Harlech, through their tears 
like me – by bird and bard: sweet song and well-wrought tale.  

Bird is Spring

If you go down to the woods today 
you’re in for a big surprise 
as dozens of darling dinosaurs 
compete for their opera prize

A phrase from one may establish its rhythm, but 
then it’s lost as another phrase cuts blithely across it 
with all the informality of free verse, in rich cacophony 

And then that rhythm you heard before 
will suddenly reappear 
in a moment of ordered harmony 
as if made for the human ear  

Then it’s gone again, but the sounds still delight – heaven-storming chitterings 
pulsing scintillating emanations through the sap-irrigated matrix of the Chloromyriad  

The Old Romantics oh!’d and ah!’d  
for they found it uplifting and freeing 
and now the science is backing them up: 
It bolters our mental well-being  

So bathe in the forest and smell the earthy humus for even now  
the Star-lungs are warming up their vox-boxes in readiness – may we likewise  
prep our auro-tubules for sensitive apprecio-resonance with this ancient treasure of our planet!  

If you’re on the road to Chitterfest  
you’d better keep moving fast  
for tomorrow’s the day the developers come  
so this chance may be your last

Sing on, sweet birds, sing on your spasmodic gutterations of brain-brightening liquid light! 
Star-lungs: stars are flowers; flowers is bird; bird is Spring…. No bird, no Spring

Should every bird that ever there was 
stare mute from under glass – 
just dozens of dry, dumb dodos – 
we’ll despair that this came to pass

Stay Songbird, Stay

O key ingredient of the harmony 
   Of Spring, dear Songbird stay, we beg you, stay! 
The dead must feel an equal agony 
   To hear you not, nor see the light of day 
Should silence fall within the woodland dells 
   We’d mourn as if the Sun had left the sky 
Or all the flowers lost their honey smells 
   As from their petals drained the coloured dye 
We love those trills that irrigate the mind 
   With water from a laughing, babbling stream
      Your calls explore a secret sylvan space 
And by the echoes somehow is defined 
   Within our human thought a painted scene 
      Of all that’s filled with natural, verdant grace 
Sweet Songbird stay and ever, ever sing for once you’re gone it never could be Spring 

We’ll take whatever course for you is best 
   Ensure the fields from poisons are kept free 
Keep dogs instead of cats, to spare your nest 
   And anywhere you need it plant a tree 
We’ll plant such bowery covert as you need 
   We’ll plant so you can shelter, roost and call 
We’ll plant the plants that give you food to feed 
   We’ll plant them if we value Spring at all 
We love each sound you sing, o darling bird 
   All notes that issue from your quavering throat 
      Each lilting warble, chirrup, cheep and coo 
By which the silent sleeping air is stirred 
   These sounds now through my open window float 
      To broach the Gates of Dawn, and bring the New! 
Sweet Songbird stay and ever, ever sing for once you’re gone it never could be Spring 

Barnes’ Owl in the Snow

(rhymes written after reading Simon Barnes’ blog post Barn owl in the snow)

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
the silent hunter flies then loses height  
descending to a favoured perch to stand 
and view with icy gaze an icy land 
Stray snowflakes catch my fancy, frivolous 
but never his; his hunt is serious. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
Outside the stables, freezing at the sight 
I let my busy, muck-filled spade fall still  
A thought occurs that gives a further thrill: 
this, and the pellet found the other day 
suggest the owls have come back here to stay! 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
Fight on! Though cold Spring breeding left its blight 
The pellet, when with tweezers prised in two 
revealed the fine-boned relics of a shrew 
strange artefacts of Lilliputian size 
a fascinating wonder for young eyes. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
he signifies to me a world put right 
Will future generations ever know 
that world? To them, and our own souls we owe 
our best attempt to turn the tide around 
so nights then still awe-shiver at his sound. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
A treasured moment; may a poet write  
some verses that will eloquently share 
this plea and make the world more keenly care 
and feel, if all is lost, how dear the price. 
For now, the humble lines here must suffice.