Joyce Barrass's Blog, page 40

BIG GARDEN BIRDWATCH 2019

Cilla the Grey Wagtail with suet pellet prize for turning up for the Big Garden Birdwatch 2019 in Wickersley, South Yorkshire, UK


The RSPB ( the UK’s Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) organises a “ Big Garden Birdwatch ” on the last weekend of January every year. You count the maximum number of each species that visits your chosen patch within the space of an hour of your choice. It’s a way of inspiring young and old to grab their binoculars and point their spotting scopes at their wonderful avian neighbours. It’s also a rough indication of which species are thriving or struggling on these islands.

I made my second attempt at completing the survey this morning. It usually takes me a couple of tries, so the full hour of birding is sometimes cobbled together from ten minutes here and half an hour there, as strength and health permit. This year I’ve been fortunate to be well enough over the weekend to do the whole sitting in one go. Or rather in two goes - one yesterday afternoon and then a repeat this morning, which is pretty good going, by my low standards. As today’s session was the first feed of the day, the birds were more eager than last time, which was just after dinner.

One of the resident Magpies turned up to represent the corvids, as the Crows simply couldn’t be bothered. Neither could the other Magpies. The flock of local Wood Pigeons made a late entrance, minus my secret favourite, Drooper the Woody with the Wonky Wing or his mate Rolly, a female with a damaged leg which gives her an unmistakable rolling gait. The other pigeons who decided to participate spent most of their time attempting to mate, thrusting their wings petulantly at one another or flying off to sit in surrounding trees, meaning I needed to adjudicate whether or not they actually counted as being on my patch at all.
Drooper the Woody with the Wonky Wing
Yesterday, none of the tit family arrived during the allotted hour. Today, a trio of Blue Tits, a pair of Great Tits and a solitary Coal Tit got their attendance marks, unlike the little clan of Long-Tailed Tits I’d heard twittering away every day last week. No doubt the ‘Lollipops’ had been checking their diaries so as to co-ordinate their efforts not to get caught on the census. All the better for staying under the radar uncounted, getting up to any merry mischief they might choose, without human knowledge. The same goes for the resident Wren, who is heard but not seen most of the time, and was certainly not going to make it easy for me during the BGBW.
Great Tit (Parus major) Blue Tit (Cyanistes caeruleus)The House Sparrows were here in force. Fifteen of them shuttling between hedgerow and feeders, chirping the odds, swapping places, noisily networking. Numbers of males and females seemed roughly equal. I know we’re so very lucky to have a such a thriving colony of House Sparrows in residence. In many parts of the UK they are becoming a rarity.
Standing out from the crowd is the one I’ve named Lucy, from the fact she’s a leucistic bird. Leucism is a condition where a bird is born with a partial lack of pigment in its feathers. There may be patches of white where other colours are ‘normal’ for the breed. Consequently, Lucy looks, from a distance, like some sort of pale finch or bunting. Closer examination reveals her to be a female House Sparrow with beautiful snowy sections on her wings. She flutters in like a ray of light, integrated with her tribe but always distinctive in our eyes. Lovely to have some joyful diversity at the bird table. Lucy the leucistic House SparrowOf the pair of resident Robins, only one graced us with its presence, plumped out and very pleased with itself to be representing its redbreast posse. Maybe it thinks it is the most photogenic and coveted tick on the list, as it has recently been voted Britain’s favourite bird and always popular for its iconic place at the heart of the winter season. Two pairs of Dunnocks were omnipresent, as usual, not attracting attention to themselves, unassuming and modest little wind-up toys, ticking along under the hedge or on the lawn, dancing jerkily under their own momentum.
The unexpected highlight for me, of this or indeed any recent BGBW, came just five minutes before the end of the appointed hour. Onto the patio bounced the Grey Wagtail, nicknamed ‘Cilla’ after its Latin name (Motacilla cinerea). She first appeared a couple of days ago for the very first time. Before that I had never seen a Grey Wagtail in the garden. I certainly wasn’t expecting her to put in an appearance for the hallowed hour. But she didn’t let me down. I even got a photo of her with a suet pellet in her beak (see above). Had to add her manually onto the BGBW results page online, as she wasn’t included among the species most likely to be seen.
A reminder, just when we might really be needing one, that you never know what is around the corner. You sometimes approach a project with cynicism, only to be delighted by unlooked for miracles, finding your glass not just half full, but overflowing. The birds in my garden remind me of that every single day.
[Full result: 1 Robin, 15 House Sparrows, 7 Blackbirds, 6 Wood Pigeons, 4 Dunnocks, 1 Magpie, 3 Blue Tits, 2 Great Tits, 1 Coal Tit and 1 Grey Wagtail.] Robin (Erithacus rubecula) Britain's favourite national sweetheart

BIAS BINDING

Photo credit and thanks to  Hitarth Jadhav from Pexels

Eye meets rolling eyeTwo sides of screenWith space between.Seeing your sorrowI yearn to remind you:Trolls can’t write your lifeCowards your storyKeyboard guerrillas Can’t spin your taleBluster can't trail your blaze.Block silky fibbersWho flatter ‘my dear’Who throw you really? and ‘quite’A ‘maybe’ to minimizeYour dance through inner light.Love yourself better than you do,Hold yourself more kindlyThan you dare to deserve,Your shining not muddiedBy shade they thrash to throw.Let their bitterest bileSurge around youStand strong in the flowMay your ease be as chiffonWade as you weepStepping stones hiddenNow found by your feetLet their bias not bind youSing your truthThough your throat feels crumpledBy bullying blanks.Rescue your radiance,Child of foreverYou are stardustYou are synchronousSupernovaYou come without commentaryGolden glossed.

SIGNATURE REFRESH

Photo credit: Pixabay via Pexels
This form from the council came today,‘Signature refresh’ the header says,For the postal vote, they must make sureI write my name in the same old ways.
So I sign their box, but it makes me thinkOf the way my signature has slippedFrom the crisp italic I learned in school,To scribbly illegible spider script.
Like when you sign for delivery folks,On that box with its screen and bleeping sound,The stylus won’t work, so your finger must serveTo claim your parcel they’ve carted round.
You point and wiggle and try to oblige,You make that joke you always make,It bears no resemblance to your name,Very easy to laugh at, and easier to fake.
If the tiny stylus is still attached,By its little lanyard an inch too short,I always by accident press something wrongSo must sign ten times for the stuff I’ve bought.
We don’t get the practice we used to get,Fewer sign a cheque when they bank onlineSo I sigh and I sign, I sign and I sigh,(And I didn’t add kisses, so it's gone just fine!)

NEXT TO THE SKIN

Photo credit with thanks: Kaboompics .com from Pexels
I still can’t bear To wear wool Next to my skin.Thanks for that,Family holiday Fifty years gone.A draughty caravan.The east coast cliffs.My new white woollyJumper with the roll neckThat nearly pulled offMy ears, dragging itOver my head.My occipital boneWould emerge with a pop.The hand-me-down sweaterHad shrunk in the washSquidging my puppy fatIn its greasy cable-patternStraitjacket.Whooping coughMixed with pitch-and-putt,Primrose Puffer,Smell of rockpool.My chest disembodiedWith hot racking peffs. Tinned vegetable soup,Comfort foodThat brought no comfort.I suppose the vomitingWas already writtenIn the stars and saltyTide-charts.Anyway, it happened.Suddenly.The arm of my woollyWasn’t quite so white, now.Fever made the memory,The touch of wool, distortInto a nightmare loop,Stiff itchy filamentsSqueezing my sorenessRubbing me rawWith every raspTickling, tingling,Pinching. Two years laterAt a party,Under the tableI ate too many Of those controversialChocolate dunkablesSponge and hidden Orange jelliness.Cake or biscuit?I had to be sure!Greed not pertussisMy nemesis this time,Again I was sick.It only put me offFor a half a day.If that.(But still I won’t wear wool.)

WAGTAIL GREY

'Cilla' the Grey Wagtail (Motacilla cinerea) (Author's photo)
I don't know who
Was more excited.

Me? Grabbing the camera
On the wrong settings,
Flustering a few shots
Steaming the glass
Between us
With breath half-held in hush
For fear of you fleeing
Without trace.

Or you, wagtail?
Cinder ashen
Bumper rump a-bob
Lemon patched
Like nicotine
On pale knuckles
Nervy restless
Astonished
Astraddle
Puddle
Where the ice blade
Cruel edge
Of January
In this moment melted
To mirror
Your twitch and startle.
The same chill cut-throat
Drove you
Pittering to my patio
From waterway
And ringing river
Into the now
Of my scattering seed
My staggering standstill.

SALTED CARAMEL

Photo credit -  Angele J from Pexels
I rememberThe day I first heardSalted CaramelWas a thing.That first eyes-closedSamplingThe fudgy glory of itThe tang that twitchedThose salt-exalting budsMaking the flat goldenSaucy flow more edgyRewriting the mythic Taste map of the tongue.
Not so the sea.She is unimpressedBy her crystalline childrenStrutting their way intoCoffee shops and eateriesRobed in sugar toffee puddles.She is the seaAfter all.Perfect in every waveEbbing or breaking.Secretly, though,She must be proudTo be part of it,Swelling her saline heartAt mothering such joy.

ORDINARY MORNING MOON

Here's one I took (much) earlier of the eclipsed blood supermoon back in 28th September 2015
I catch her earlyBetween wake and wash(Me, not her!)Slipping down sassy(Her, not me!)Swanning through sycamore twigs In her lap-danceWay way west.I’m such a lightweight,Not up to the occasion,I stand watchingAt the foot of the bed,Shivering in woolly shawlOver my PJsMittens missing fingersThermal hat half over one eyeWhile silver she stoops to stun.
Last night,In the cross hairs of half the planet,She hid from me, smirking,Strategically gatheringColonnades of cumulusTo cover her scarlet blushHer lupine lovelinessHer winter plumagePlump as the robin’sHer breast as redEclipsing carmineCochineal completelyAt the nub of the night
But now she is alreadyMoving on into waneNibbling her rind awayCrater by craterKnowing I must waitYears to witness the same.If on such ordinary morningsI ever fail to beBowled over by wonderAt her wistful waning,I don’t deserveHer headline-grabbingUp-all-nightShadow playHer super, her full, her blood.

ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

Picture credit: Elephant by joeclub_ake at PixabayTrunk out the windowSkull skimming the ceilingMy soles skid on people-patterned parquetI squeeze myself intoYour denialYour unwillingHope against hopeYou’ll notice meAcknowledge meBefore I am crushedBy the narrownessOf your room
Dropping your voiceYou talk across meAs if I am invisibleI know you prefer me shrunken.I weep at my bulkMy inconvenient presenceThe way I wear This pachyderm skinI know I embarrass you.I see it in yourAverted eyesHushed voicesAwkward silences
Someone feels my leg.I am called a tree.One grabs my earAnd I become a fan.Fondler of my flankI am not a wallIn your world of human hatingMy tusk your spearMy trunk a snakeMy tail you tug as ropePlease stop!Focus your eyesHard as obsidianAnd see me!Know me.Let me be here.Admit it.Admit me.Embrace meAs I am.
Then scramble up on my backAnd I’ll carry you home.

WHAT TIME IS IT, MRS WOLF (MOON)? - OR THE AMATEUR ASTRONOMER’S LAMENT

Wolf Moon rising - before the total eclipse in the wee small hours (Author's photo)

She’s risen! We’re feeling alright.Best chance in ten years for a sight.So get out the bins, The thermos and lens,And gaze at the sky, dead-of-night.
She’s Wolf! She’s Super! She’s Full!Eclipsing like blood she’ll soon dull;You think in your head, “She’ll look great when she’s red!”But that isn’t Wolf, it’s just Bull!
Cos when your alarm rings out loud,And you’re poised, gazing moonward, so proud,Comes that moment you dread, And you’re straight back to bed - There’s nothing to see but thick cloud!

SWINGTIME 1963

Buttery sun slants through the nets
Bootees kick into light
Dad’s dependable shunter’s palms
Guide to-and-fro at my back
Terpsichore clock hours bouncing blissful
From Bill Haley’s vinyl track
On the scarlet-lidded Dansette


Toddler pendulum, Dad rocks meFrom kitchen cool to living room warmthUp, lifting, back, forward, toes pointed,Flying gaspy giggles, you trying to sing,Floor tilts with subsidenceFrom mine-shafts burrowing Blind moles under our valleyDropped pencils roll from the south Towards our cramped back yardIts draughty outhouse, crunchy coalholeSteam train rings on railsShudders the triangular under-the-stairsVibrates my heart-space with its presence
I don’t recall the Kennedy shockWhen all the world stood stillKnowing where they were,What they were doing.I was ready already For the Moon landing.How quickly it came, like the endTo my sixties swingingEarthbound then soaring through stardustOrbiting before the plummet
Two years later, back on the ground,I run my fingers over those hooksEither side the jamb painted magnoliaEchoes of where I swung without caresWhere hospital bed now fills the roomWith its pulleys and chromeWhen the dark blood clot moved into oursWhile I was sleeping And ate my daddy alive.