The Glistening Maytime

It was a fine soft day in spring and with the cloud-castled sky above it absorbed the moments’ meaning. I love the way nature responds to the seasons, weather and maturity, it delights me, it’s a work of art. Here is a place to find treasures to enlarge the mind by contemplation, for there is no wi-fi here, but I can promise that you’ll find a better connection, with memories that will never fade. I love nature’s wonders, an enchanting guide to the ebb and flow of her calendar.  But sadly, I have often thought about technology and wondered what tariff it really carries.

As Maverick and I strolled in grasses wade up to the knees and with a confection of wildflowers all around, the birds it seemed had a playlist of music put together for my delectation.  The robins were fluting, the little wren was trilling. Cuthbert our friendly crow, black and shiny from bristled beak to toe, was following close by, coasting jauntily and soaring above. I was filled with delight like a prisoned bird that had found its freedom.

In the edge land of a water catchment where the little violets hid amongst the many wildflowers that swirled in the wind’s breath, here the floss of the reedmace and the seed heads of the dandelion went sailing by, and where, by the water’s edge the buttercups and hawksbit made gold.  Where the culvert discharged its water, there amidst the alluvium soil, I spied the tracks of a fast-moving animal with its longer loath of stride, however my footfalls didn’t go undetected.  A young deer flinched visibly and was caught in a frenzied daze, it was fear on legs and like a fugitive running it went limbic.  It was muscularly faster than thought and swiftly ran away.  Maverick was mentally unflustered to hurry, it’s surprising what a parched throat will do.  I called him Lightfoot.

With penumbras of thought, Maverick and I rested a while to watch Whip the wagtail.  With dancing feet and tail he hopped over the water and through the air to the ripple line to slake his thirst.  As I began to feed the baby moorhens Cuthbert came to land and skipped hurriedly to pillage the food.  The mother of the chicks spread her wings at Cuthbert to warn him off.  But Cuthbert stood his ground, the feathers on his head exploded into a large plume and looking rather like a guard on duty at the palace, he stood to attention. Then suddenly the mother charged at him in a burst of rage.  Cuthbert gave in and quickly took to the air once again.

A young mother with a toddler approached.  With adore in her ocean eyes of blue and her face bloomed like a sweet flower, she pointed to Cuthbert the crow sailing low above her head and was mystified.  I asked her name and with the hush of her lips, she whispered Cordelia.  Her mother became tearfully affectionate about her as she rhapsodised on the wonders of her birth, and I am stilled by it.  She then momentarily shifted the direction of conversation to Maverick, and I obliged her.  It transpired that both Cordelia and Maverick were the same age.  She then spoke about Cuthbert as she had heard stories about him but believed it to be an apocryphal story, nothing more than that. Mother and child stroked Maverick fondly then took their leave, smiling and waving goodbye to both Maverick and Cuthbert.

As we continued our journey through the meadows where the lapwings were flying with echoes of unvaried cries. We stood a while to watch how they tumbled, dived and cried their sweet mating cries, until Cuthbert being the rebel that he is chased them all away.  I called his name and talked to him, leaving trinkets for his delight. As we completed our adventure and left this magical place, we could hear the dog fox enjoying the sounds of his own voice, whilst driving most of the conies back into their warrens.  With my best companion Maverick at my side and my greatest riches my ignorance of wealth, I mourn the day so soon has glided by.

 Cuthbert the Crow

Cuthbert’s black and shiny from bristled beak to toe,

He knows my route of travel, wherever I may go.

When I hear his cawing, growing louder, coming near,

He always measures my distance, whenever I appear.

For in despair that he evokes his ordeal in the past,

He thinks that you’re the farmer about to take a blast.

So don’t stop to say hello and think he’s shy, he’s not,

He’s Cuthbert the wily crow, and he’s not about to be shot.

So please don’t glaze yourself and really think you know,

With his quick acute perception, he’ll take his distance so.

With his rakish eye and the hoarseness of his throat,

His prudent mind won’t understand the coercion you provoke.

When the world is too much with him and he’s feeling rather low,

Chattering, pluming his feathers as I gaze up from below.

He’s not a portent of evil, there’s no need to take a fright,

With eyes shining brightly that betokens sheer delight,  

But it would be remiss of me if I did not share with you,

A noble vision of shimmering feathers of purple, green and blue.