A Poem a Day (542): Migration

 
Migration
 
From their rocky breeding grounds to the sheer edges
of the Antarctic ice, they follow the guiding sun,
the flightless Adelie with their bright white bellies,
walking the frozen ground in sleek jet overcoats,
to traverse a yearly distance of 13,000 kilometres.
In the winter, the sun doesn’t rise to the south
of the Circle, so they just keep on plodding,
the ice continually expanding beneath their feet.
 
The Arctic Tern is the world’s greatest wanderer,
flapping its snowy wings from pole to pole,
from Greenland to the pristine Weddell Sea,
the clearest waters to be found on Earth.
The Bar-headed Goose takes the highest route,
reaching 7,000 metres with no tailwind to help.
They hug the mountainsides and fly by night,
crossing the still-growing Himalayas.
 
In the winter, starlings double in England,
touching down on the east coast to travel west,
roosting in lush green parks and the city grey.
To keep warm at night, you might spy them
swooping and curving and diving on high,
painting a blissful murmuration in the sky,
a kaleidoscope of ever-changing pictures,
until they find their sleep time in the trees.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 5, 2022
 
 

A Poem a Day (406): 4 Birds of Paradise & 2 more haiku

 

 

All these little birds were flouncing their funky stuff on Dancing with the Birds (Netflix) last night. My favourite so far is McGregor’s bird with his crazy crown.

 

 

Atop a wood pole,

he struts his yellow-tailed dance.

A female flutters.

 

 

Little red-yolk bird

unveils his dish-like bower.

Eyes contract, he flirts.

 

 

Feathers fluff, he curves,

angles, straight-keel, yoga-style,

blue-black sheen bristling.

 

 

He hops, quills twitching,

tail feathers twist, scarlet blaze.

Yellow-bum hula.

 

 

Books republished, sold.

Another title, new name.

Stealer takes a life.

 

 

Fields of lavender

wet the senses, rain-fuelled rise

of indigo clouds.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 10, 2021

 

 

 

 

A Poem a Day (150): Wings on the wire

This poem is about the illegal killing of wild birds, mainly in the Mediterranean. In 2015, the number was 25 million.

Wings on the wire 

Wings on the wire
In tangles, caught
By the very things
Meant to set us free.

We flutter like flies
Stuck on a silk web
Or coloured washing
Flapping in the wind.

Our migration ends
Here, trapped by man
To become sustenance
When we die.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 20, 2020

One of the charities I support is the RSPB. Here are some of the worrying things that have been/are still happening. 

In 2015, it was reported that 25 million wild birds were being killed every year in the Mediterranean, including chaffinches, robins, quails and thrushes. They were shot, trapped in long nets stretching across beaches or poisoned. Half of those killed were in countries with strong laws designed to protect them. The highest numbers were counted in Egypt, Italy and Syria.

On 15 May 2020, the RSPB said it was overrun with reports of birds of prey being killed illegally since lockdown began. More than 56 offences.

In August 2019, it was reported that the illegal killing of birds of prey on moorland had tripled in the space of two years. Traps and poison. 

In January 2019, UK laws allowed licence holders to kill some of our endangered bird species under temporary permits licensed by Natural England & Natural Resources Wales. These birds included bullfinches, meadow pipits & oystercatchers. Also included was the skylark, which is on the critical red list.

In the EU, the illegal bird trade is worth at least 10 million euros per year. Songbirds are for human 
consumption. One gram of songbird meat is said to sell for one gram of marijuana.

In January 2020, the Trump administration moved to soften some laws affecting wild birds, saying businesses (oil, gas, construction, etc) that kill birds accidentally ought to be able to operate without fear of prosecution.

A Poem a Day (18): Hold that thought

A short poem from the prompt 'Hold that Thought' from a poetry site I was checking out yesterday. This one isn't a five-minute poem. Probably ten or so.

Hold that thought

“Hold that thought,” squawked the bird

As he peered down from his cage

“If I fly out, where would I go,

What would I eat, do you know?”

“Don’t be afraid,” soothed his friend,

Who watched him from beneath.

“I will catch you if you fall

Though I doubt you will at all.”

“But I’m scared,” squeaked the bird

Bobbing his yellow head to and fro.

“I’ve never gone beyond this cage,

“Ever since I was the youngest age.”

“Don’t you yearn to be free?

To soar overhead, oh so high,

Looking down on all of us?

Why do you make such a fuss?”

Canary turned his eye to the door,

Fastened with the simplest clip.

All this needed was to push a bit

And really that would be it.

Weighing up all his options,

He cursed his yellow heart.

Why did he tremble and shake

Over the journey he could take?

“Maybe another day,” he chirped

To his four-pawed, furry friend,

Whose whiskers suddenly drooped

As the bird was not to be duped.

copyright Vickie Johnstone

World Animal Day Blog Hop

Sponsored by Terri Giuliano Long, author of In Leah’s Wake,
and David M. Brown, author of the upcoming Man vs Cat

World Animal Day: 4 October, 2012

We're celebrating World Animal Day with a huge blog hop event! Yay!

Welcoming me home

Little eyes bright, whiskers twitch,

Purrs excitedly

High up on the road

Swifts soar as blue tits twitter,

Sounds of spring fly in

Hands up who likes animals? Hands up who lurrrrrves animals? All those fluffy, feathery, cuddly, cutesy, intelligent, faithful, funny creatures who share our lives and make our day. Mmm, I can see a big show of hands. Let's give a big cheers for their day! Grunt, eeeek, mew, voof, grivvet, splish, splosh, baa, moo, oink, neeeiiiigggh!

I love animals, especially cats. My first pet was a dog called Glen. I can't remember much about him, as I was really little, but we used to take him for walks along the marshes and fields where I lived. Glen was always chucking himself into the water whenever he could and shaking himself all over us, like a big dirty shower. I recently wrote a doggy character in a novel called 3 Heads & A Tail. I gave the dog the best lines, the best love story, brains and adventure, and I named him Glen. Recently, my dad told a story about this dog. My dad used to work on the railway and there was a rail yard where we lived in Slade Green. He'd hang out there with the other drivers and they were very friendly. I can't remember if this happened there or in a pub, but Glen, accompanying my dad, decided that he wanted to be a bit more human. Up he jumped on to the table and started lapping from some poor guy's pint! He got himself banned. He was a character!

We had loads of animals when I was a kid. The best time was when I was at Infants School and we had an aviary at the bottom of our garden. It was huge (or at least to me) and my dad built it. He bred a rainbow of budgies, which I thought I could communicate with simply by winking, and little bluish quails that pecked along the ground. The aviary was like a giant house of wonder. It had two doors. You walked in, closed one, and then walked through the next, so the birds were safe. Inside, I'd hold out my hand and the budgies would fly around tweeting and land on my palm, and look up at me. To a kid who loved animals, it didn't get any better than that.

We then moved to Erith, to a house on the corner of a street. We didn't have a huge back garden. It was kind of square, but my dad created a pond (as he did wherever we lived) and filled it with fish. During that time our animals included: 2 rabbits (Snowy & Harvey); 2 dogs (Penny & Bianca); at least 4 cats that I can recall (Misty, Mitzi, Buster & Smokey); another cat that someone asked my mum to take in, which turned out to be pregnant; 2 guinea pigs; 2 red-crested black newts; gerbils, which started off as 2, and sprouted; a cockerteil; a canary; some budgies (one was mine, called Pip); numerous fish; a duck that my mum took in from someone who knocked on our door, which vanished around Easter, making me very sad; and a tortoise called Tonic - we knew this because his name was painted on his shell, and he wandered under the garden gate one day, stayed a few weeks, and then wandered off, like a travelling gypsy with a shell. Add to this the numerous birds that my dad rescued from the garden, which would live in a box by the radiator for a while, before being released into the blue yonder. Oh, and a frog that my mum saved from Buster.

As I grew up, our furry family grew fewer, but we still had many pets compared with most people. We almost had a house rabbit. It was sooo cute and black, and tiny. My mum bought it during the week we were due to move to Cornwall. Cue the chaos of moving, particularly chaotic when it's about 250 miles away to the new home. Somewhere in the middle of the journey, on the motorway, my mum realised that she'd left the bunny in the toilet. Not 'in' the toilet (what were you thinking?), but in the room! He'd been put in there for safekeeping while the removal men were taking out our stuff. Panic set in as my mum rung her friend to contact the family who had bought our house. Happily, bunny was rescued and had a new owner. I always wondered what it would have been liked to have a house rabbit.

My first pets as a grown-up were two cats called Amy and Kiwi. Somehow they managed to get pregnant by the same smoky coloured tom (I could tell by the markings of what came later!) when they weren't even 6 months old (that taught me to get to the vet with a female cat asap!). I saw both cat births. Amy was first and she helped Kiwi with hers. It was fascinating. David Attenborough would have been impressed. Amy had 6 kittens and Kiwi, who was smaller, had 4. For 6 brilliant weeks I was greeted at the door by 10 stampeding balls of fluff and followed everywhere around the house. I'd wake up every morning to them all sleeping on me. Bliss. Of course, I couldn't keep 10 kittens, but I had an excellent local pet shop, run by a woman and her daughter, so 8 of my kitties went there. My mum wanted the ginger one with golden eyes, whom she named Charlie, and I persuaded her to take the little runt of the litter, who was a tough little fighter, called Lily.

Alas, I lost Kiwi when she was only 6 years old, but I immortalised her in Kiwi in Cat City, and I'm still writing this series set in a world of catizens. 

Today, I just have one pet. She's 13 now and her name is Mogsy. I can't imagine life without her. She's one of a kind.

I'll finish with a poem about two animals:

The fox and the mole

Let’s rob a bank

Said the fox to the mole

I’ve got mouths to feed

And I’m feeling the need

Ok, said the mole

But you know I can’t see

I can burrow real deep

But I might fall asleep

Well, said the fox

I can offer my cunning

I will find a way inside

And to you I’ll confide

Wake me up said the mole

When you discover this

As I’ve got a hunch

We’re in a credit crunch

So the fox went off thinking

How to rob the bank

And came up with a plan

While eating a cherry flan

Well then, asked the mole

What do you suggest we do

To steal all the money

But not do anything funny?

Aha, said the fox grinning

I’ll tell you what to do

Just burrow under the bank

While I drive up in a tank

Oh, said the mole frowning

I never thought of that

I didn’t know foxes could drive

Have you told this to your wife?

No, we have to keep this secret

Said the fox to the mole

As she’ll have my guts for garters

And that’s just for starters

So off went the fox and mole

To begin their bank robber life –

They rivalled Bonny and Clyde

Living it up, the law they defied

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