#starlings
Upon a pine where radiant dawn was born,
Two European starlings greeted morn;
Their speckled wings in trembling gold arrayed,
Where heaven’s light through emerald needles played.
One sang:
“O’ beloved heart that shares my soaring breath,
You turn all thoughts of fear and darkness to death;
For in your gaze the Lord’s own light I see,
A universe of tender harmony.
The cedar stands in patient, silent grace,
Yet none so firm as love’s abiding place;
Through storm and snow it keeps its steadfast art—
Yet stronger still the bond of wing and heart.
The dawn proclaims that souls are born to rise,
To break the chains of doubt and wounded skies;
For God has poured His wisdom into flame,
And called each living spirit by its name.”
The other starling answered, soft and bright,
As morning crowned their feathers with its light:
“My dearest soul, my shelter in the air,
My every flight begins and ends in care;
What is this world but love made visible,
A sacred song, both tender and eternal?
The rivers seek the ocean without end,
As I, through storm, to you alone descend;
For love is not a fleeting, fragile thing—
It is the strength that teaches hearts to sing.
The Lord has bound our spirits wing to wing,
To make of every dawn a living spring;
And in your nearness, every fear takes flight,
Transfigured into mercy, warmth, and light.”
Then both together lifted heavenward song,
Where wisdom, love, and splendour flowed along;
Upon the pine they glowed in morning’s fire—
Two hearts aflame with sacred, deep desire.
“O’ Lord of majesty, of love, of flame,
Who breathes eternal beauty into name;
Keep us as one through every shifting sky,
Till even time itself learns how to die.
For love, when blessed by heavens high above,
Becomes the purest form of living praise;
And in its light, all darkness turns to dove.”
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC
A mendacious murmuration
of black pixels dance a fractal fandango
against the pale pink sky
telling you that all is well with the world.
A susurration of complacency–
above the exhaust-scented streets
of Birmingham’s melting asphalt–
whispers, “Don’t worry,
ignore the heatstroke starlings
dropping from the sky
onto viscous pitch dark bitumen”.
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 1:34 PM UTC
Dark skies, whirring overlooking
Illumination light, clear of clouds
Clutching, rising, bird flocks blooming
Gathering in denuded trees in crowds
A year ago, here I sat watching these
They came back, and now, leave again
Lifting, scattering, flocking in the breeze
Gathering, as to fight without bloodstain
Heavens above full of dusty birds in flight
Whirring, whirling from one shape to another
Nearing winters sun, breaks through bright
How they flit and play, as if to some conductor
There, so very high above in murmurations
Never lost from my sight as they dip and sway
Up, down, dancing with their leaving aspirations
For times span, they’ve swayed dark skies grey
Dec 11, 2023
Dec 11, 2023 at 11:08 AM UTC
The clouds chasing grey
and fierce, over the canal --
a flock of starlings.
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 3:44 AM UTC
The black hole swallows
starlings up and spews them out --
******* pumping heart.
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 3:44 AM UTC
#
*From the sodden, trundled forest floor the trees reached higher
than he ever imagined possible-- pine needles from the conif,
blending in perfectly with those, broadleaf.. a strange, almost
absurd-feeling; symmetry- in a world, nothing more than
cluttered and confused--
in the eyes of a small-one, now subject..
And now as a grown man,
I return to the disenchanted forest..
in order to bring enchantment.
At the edge of the rustic, one-room
cabin, I pause..
choosing to peer in, rather than enter--
my world-hardened hands, now pressed against
cracked window glass--
opaque, but still..
I can see..
Inside the small room is as if a cosmo to itself-- there is a large
ring of dark water, surrounding what
seems to me to be a small island,
yet still, I can feel her..
sense her glow..
And magnificent within
her solitude and silence..
she is strong,
and firm-- her war-torn heart, gathered and secure..
all boundaries, seemingly intact--
but there is a teeming..
a never-ending movement
of some form of life-
..in what I had once thought a ring of dark water,
but can now see as if some kind of a fear-hewn moat..
and the movement within, none other than that
of those trying to reach her.
She is the prize,
pulled away from the threat of harm
by her intricately created world.
And there is this black movement above her.. what is that?
Moving in rhythmic synchronization..
like a flock of starlings maybe..
The wings that give them flight, are bat-like and sharp..
and only varying sections at a time of the flock's movement
alight on to her..
as other ones take flight and rejoin the ever-moving,
ever-shifting flock's shape..
..and as each changing of the guard takes place,
the inhabitants of the moat change color--
the light, now reflecting through the small window
and bringing a matching glow to my arm..
And though I remain unaffected by the color of light,
I see the whole nature of the moat, conform to each color's change..
And it is then that I realize
that the birds are the pieces of her fragmented heart,
and the changing colors, her perceived reality..
based on whatever portions of her heart are inside of her
at any given time.
The moat provides the distance,
yet one without its inhabitants even knowing
they are in it--
changing color in order to fit in to
her ever-changing reality.
I will never enter into the moat..
and the color change is hers, not mine.
I am more distant to her now
than even those, of the moat..
and my refusal to change color
will always be a point of contention--
but for her, I am the only one who sees,
I am the only one who knows
about the island, the starlings.. the moat.
She loves me so much,
she hates me.
My prayer for her is that one day,
that whole flock of starlings will alight on to her..
and never, ever leave.
Maybe on that day also, her moat filled with
Mona Lisas and Madhatters, will finally, dry up..
and that her color perception
will become the colors that truly are,
rather than those, of her ever-changing, shift
A disenchanted forest-- enchanted, once again.*
#
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
Listen as the Starlings break
my somber thoughts with
songs
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take
outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping
utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill
the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
I carry Aberystwyth
in the threads of my coat,
in the scuffs on my boots;
the sea salt, sand swept
into the fibres.
And now I stand here
in Jardin du Luxembourg,
thinking about the bench
by the well,
I sat on looking out to sea,
watching the starlings dance,
while considering the possibility
of perhaps, one-day, maybe
living in Paris.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
The snow,
Whirls,
Spins,
And turns;
Shapes in the air.
A floating, flowing, fluidity;
Such substance in something
So diaphanous.
A performance,
Just as magical as
The starlings
They had watched
At dusk
By the pier.
Swooping
And gliding
The birds
Danced in the darkening sky.
That erratic black cloud;
Morphing, flowing, conjuring...
Forming new dimensions
While the glowing sun
Balances precariously,
Poised on the edge of the world
And then
Sinks,
Into the sea,
Leaving pink
Goodbye kisses
On the clouds.
Now,
Two figures are
Stood by the window,
Looking out and
Watching
The crystal dust drift
Within the flow of the wind.
A giant ghost's display of ballet;
Spinning, twisting, turning...
Leaning on each other
In silence,
In the darkness,
The skies' cold ashes
Sparkle
In the night,
Under the rays of the artificial
Street light
Outside.
Soon the train will leave the station,
Get further and further away...
Settling in the west for longer than a day.
Swallowed by the horizon.
Physics in the way.
She will freeze her face
And wave,
Borrowing a stoic's smile,
Safely held together,
Until within the veil
Of the warm taxi home,
Her eyes
Melt.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Coiled, grey March –snow patches slow to disperse on the townscape -
trying to turn the year.
A grey plume drifts through the low sky, like smoke but not smoke,
slow to disperse
reforming and palping like a long streak of foam on the sea; a grubby bag
turning, plastic and drifting
dividing in the sky: a shifting exclamation mark pulls out of shape
turns pale to vanishing, is gone.
A sound like pages riffling, like a thousand paper fans rustling, a darkening in the air
turning in the low light all together
wheeling , breaking, re-combining, stretching again. Sky geometry.
Still that dry whisper-clustering
of many wings holding close formation, turning and swooping together.
The cloud is back, is gone, is back again – endlessly
The grey light feels unnaturally late
above the Eagle Rec
starlings are moulding shapes, most beautiful murmuration.
The complex maths of defence – stay close, stay close –
turn, wheel, stay close.
Against the pale dusk the moment stretches beyond bearing,
that high, remote plasticity floats on as the light hesitates
dragging out the turn towards darkness.
The hawk must be near, striking into the crowd -
spin, turn on a wing-tip, wheel close, divide and turn: with luck
she will take your neighbour.
The black bunched crowd drops as one, to roost, to rest.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Each time i allow
my mind to drift in
retrospect, regrets
gather like starlings
in the dusk sky.
Memories tainted rose
take their own shape
and imagination
runs amok leaving
wagging fingers
in its wake.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC