Every now and then, people ask
what bird is that? Post me
doubtful snapshots on their phone –
blurred wings, a beak in shrubbery.
I puzzle out the glimpses shown:
to earn a small repute
as someone who may know
is year on year a guessing game.
My neck craned upward, seeking clues,
hush-stepped I pause pursuit
of feathered form before
song steals away, the call unnamed.
Or – to keep my shadow hidden –
stalk the hedgerow, scramble
through barbed wire. With patience test
a binocular field of view.
Or – elbows stiffly propped on knees –
for windy hours on end
I watch where sky meets sea
to mark behaviour, size and shape.
When claiming an identity,
note how plumage can mislead –
the only constant traits
are looking and humility.
x. 2022
Responding to the prompt of 'the ones who got away', this is - in part - a reworking of a much older poem ('Recognition'), similarly exploring the peculiarities of birdwatching.
ReplyDeleteWithout being confined to a set pattern, I wanted to harness the power of rhyme - both end-line and enjambed - as far as I could. To do so within tightly controlled regular stanzas required a deal of soulless crafting.
Which is probably why I warm more to my piece from twenty-plus years ago: it feels more personal and spontaneous. And - should the reader want to compare - comes with an extended commentary ...
https://markbcassidy.blogspot.com/2011/05/recognition.html