"hedgerow" poems
It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.
The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?
The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.
But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.
Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.
It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
saw a tasty treat
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
thought the taste so sweet
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
licked his sticky lips
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
spitting out the pips
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
looked around for more
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
ate an apple core
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
rolled into a ball
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
loved the fruits of fall
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.
Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.
There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track,--
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack,--
Before the daisy grows a common flower,
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,--
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
14.6k
There is a wildness still in England that will not feed
In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand,
Easy to **** not easy to tame. It will never breed
In a zoo for the public pleasure. It will not be planned.
Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk
Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make -
We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke
As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake.
A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps
But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell.
To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps,
And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.
4.8k
The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight,
With narrow pointed wings
Whews o’er our heads—soon out of sight
And as she flies she sings:
And darting down the hedgerow side
She scares the little bird
Who leaves the nest it cannot hide
While plaintive notes are heard.
I’ve watched it on an old oak tree
Sing half an hour away
Until its quick eye noticed me
And then it whewed away.
Its mouth when open shone as red
As hips upon the brier,
Like stock doves seemed its winged head
But striving to get higher
It heard me rustle and above leaves
Soon did its flight pursue,
Still waking summer’s melodies
And singing as it flew.
So quick it flies from wood to wood
’Tis miles off ‘ere you think it gone;
I’ve thought when I have listening stood
Full twenty sang—when only one.
When summer from the forest starts
Its melody with silence lies,
And, like a bird from foreign parts,
It cannot sing for all it tries.
‘Cuck cuck’ it cries and mocking boys
Crie ‘Cuck’ and then it stutters more
Till quick forgot its own sweet voice
It seems to know itself no more.
4.5k
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
everything of
me was choir-song
every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,
in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,
in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,
in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,
and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,
everything of me
was choir-song and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,
i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
See that carbon footprint
the one stomped on the earth
the one that you've been treading in
since the moment of your birth
it's the dog **** on the muddy boot
that stinks of gasoline
it's the plastic bag and broken glass
it's the poison nicotine
it's the mattress in the hedgerow
it's the paint can in the lake
It's the acid in the raindrop
and each promise that we break
see that carbon footprint
the one stamped on liquored breath
that's the one you never noticed
until too late the earth faced death
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.
There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
3k
The scarecrow is bored playing the same old game
Cold wet clothes hanging from a wooden frame.
He has no choice but to stand perfectly still
Scaring all the bird s at the top of the hill.
A crow calls out from under the hedgerow
“Catch me, scare me old wooden scarecrow”
But the scarecrow was staring across at a stable
As he had noticed there’s food laid on a table.
“Make haste little bird and fly over to the meadow
Bring me some nice juicy berries from the mistletoe”
“Please little bird, hurry now and be on your way
And can you bring m back some of the lovely hay”
But when the crow returned he found him asleep
He had become bored counting sheep.
The Crow lay beside his feet to keep himself warm
And needed shelter from the oncoming storm.
The scarecrow awoke and looked at his shoe
He had found a friend he could talk to.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
There's a Poet who dreams of a Gateway to Heaven
Not some cold austere Gate bolted and closed in your face
As if to say "Clear off! You're not wanted here anymore"
But instead a lovely warm welcoming Gate
A brightly colourful Gate with lots of bunting and ribbons on it
And a big banner over the top announcing
"Welcome Great Poet"
It'd be a bit...a bit like Noddy in Toyland
And there'd be all these pretty young girls with bowls in their hands
Spreading rose petals on the ground for me to walk upon
A beautiful path laid out before me, a carpet of sweet scenting loveliness
And there'd be other boys and girls there too strumming lutes and harps
Like beautiful critics... singing my praises
Inside the Gate it'd be like this wonderful Park
With lovely flowers and shrubs and trees
With marble fountains and statues and quiet flowing streams
With radiant kids and beautiful people and lovely marquees like as if you were attending some wonderful party or banquet,
And then you'd hear a bustle in the hedgerow
But it's only a bunch of publishers vying with one another
Trying to get my signature on a multi million dollar contract
Suddenly ahead of me there'd be this wonderful magnificent throne
It'd be offered to me... offered to me as my true place... my true home
And then a man would come and he'd humbly bow and kneel before me
He'd be offering something to me....
Why! It's the Nobel Prize for Literature
I'd smile and say "Ah shucks guys sure I was only doin' a few rhymes... and a few stories".
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 2:55 PM UTC
i.
her dress laced with
icicles, winter streams,
on her head she
wore a bluebell hat.
her hair wild roses,
her little hands gathered love like
wild roses, until her
cheeks melted like wild
roses, and everything of
her was the rose wild wind and
the silvery song of the moon.
ii.
winter wove it's dull aches,
it's rose powder rains, its
clouds of dream around
her, but she refused to believe
in the scrolled iron gates of winter
where nothing would open into
the garden of her dreams and
she was left a wood sprite,
magical as freezing midnight
cloud-like in her roses and
blanched cheeks, a snow-rose,
deeply beautiful.
iii.
pale as a midnight cloud,
the flowerbeds soft stars
of february, moments of
ice, tears, tears of a doll
in the frost.
iv.
love, surreal and ceramic,
pink blossom kisses on your
cheeks and your cherry-white lips
winter harness of bells and softest
leather.
v.
clouds sing of roses, winter sinks
like a dark rose, magical inks, rose-
girl, roses, dark thorn of black,
muse in the hedgerow, singing
of a long forgotten world. wounded
bird, drawn of paper and the ringing,
ringing air.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
The blackberries on the railway path are ripe.
The woodland birds are quick to take their share,
while purple fingers pick amongst the hype
and rabbits hop in the hedgerow somewhere.
A cool wind spirals, rustling fallen leaves,
carrying distant cries along its way
and bending the amber-tinged tips of trees.
The sound of summer joys are in decay.
They soften, becoming calmer, quiet,
like tired eyes in need of time to sleep.
There are some feelings I cannot forget
and memories I will forever keep.
Meet me along the railway path, my dear,
to breathe the mellow, autumn atmosphere.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.
Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.
There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.
There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.
It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.
When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.
An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.
Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.
Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
This time, a single breath unbalances
the silky parachutes
and they float into the hedgerow.
A watch reads seven,
but it stood for the year that
slithered through a broken sand timer.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
Love has come Again
At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.
Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.
In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.
Love is Come Again the carol sings.
This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.
La Serenissima
There it was, high on an outer wall
of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.
Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.
But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:
a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Some one has destroyed
the robin’s nest
and stolen the eggs
Jane said
she leaned
into the hedgerow
beneath the streamlet
and parted the branches
her voice choked
as her fingers poked
about the damaged nest
you stood watching
behind her
over her shoulder
watching her fingers move
who’d do such a thing?
you asked
all gone
not an egg left
she said
in saddened tone
you leaned near her
smelt lavender water
she wore
her dark hair
pinned back
with metal grips
why destroy?
she said
why steal?
you sensed her sadness
felt her ache
and how
it would feel
she withdrew her hands
and wiped them
on her dull grey dress
and looked along the lane
and back at you again
who would do such things?
you asked
she looked at the hedgerow
that now concealed
the damaged nest
and said
father says
such are humankind
that seek and take
and leave all fouled
and lost and leave
to nature or to God
to mend and count
the cost
I saw the nest and eggs
last time we came
you said
the beauty of the eggs
and nest made neat
Jane walked on
along the lane
and you walked
beside her
her dull grey dress
swaying as he walked
her hand reached out
for yours
her fingers slim
unpainted nails
her thumb rubbed
against your hand’s skin
the sky
watercolour blue
with puffs of white
just the countryside
sans eggs and nest
and Jane and you.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Those are Bullfinch’s eggs
Jane said
pointing at
the 5 eggs
in a nest
hidden in a hedge
and as she pointed
you imagined
that some god
modelled all female fingers
on that before you
how the nail was set
so perfectly
on the finger’s tip
the colour pinkish white
the skin almost blending in
we mustn’t disturb
she added
or the mother bird
will fly away
and not return
oh right
you said
gazing at the eggs
once her finger
had been removed
from the hedge
you studied
the pale blue eggs
speckled there
and sensed her presence
near your cheek
the lavender
that she wore
the way her hair dark
coming to her shoulders
was tied back
from her face
some collect them
Jane said
and pierce the top
and bottom
and blow through the contents
and have them on display
do they?
you said
seeing the sad expression
she wore
why is that?
you asked
she stood back
from the hedgerow
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
said
because they must have
they have to collect
what is there
for all to see
they must just have
for themselves alone
the May sun
was shining warm
and she took your hand
in hers and walked
you on along the lane
the small stream running
by the lane’s edge
her grey skirt
and white blouse
and white socks
giving her a plain look
but her eyes lit up
and she smiled again
and you wanted
at that moment
as she held your hand
for that hour
to be there forever
not to be lost
thinking you knew then
the depth of love
and not its loss
of that
and feeling sense
and not the cost.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Along the lane
towards Diddling
you stopped
and looked
at the church
on the horizon
between
the hedgerows
beneath
the blue
and white
clouded sky
Jane
stood next to you
her hand
holding yours
the softness
of her skin
against yours
her dark hair
tied
by a green ribbon
one of my favourite sights
she said
the church
becoming
more visible
the closer you get
her voice disturbed
birdsong
from the hedgerows
a blue ***
took flight
the flutter
of small wings
we never had hedgerows
in London
you said
no blue *** birds
no wide fields
or Downs
just streets
and houses
and pavement
and grass
around our flats
where pigeons
or sparrows
settled
for thrown out
bread
from windows above
Jane gazed at you
her dark eyes
focusing
I’d hate that
she said
I love my countryside
and fields
and birds
and open sky
she sniffed
the air
and you walked on
along the lane
she pointed out
wildflowers
and hedgerow plants
and talked
of the farmhand
who died
when his tractor
turned over
in a field
and the first time
she remembered
visiting
the small church
and her father
holding her high
above his head
so she could see
the expanse
of the Downs
and you listened
to her words
the language
holding you
and drawing you in
her lips opening
and closing
her summer dress
moving
as she walked
her sandaled feet
treading the lane
you wanted
to captured it all
to recall it
years later
all over
again.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
My pulse is slowed by the tide
that sighs twice daily
over the sparkling mud,
a slow scatter of wading birds at its heels.
Inhale and brambles dot the hedgerow,
purpling our mouths -
exhale and the snowdrops are back,
advance guard of a trumpetting spring
as the circling bay holds the circling year
in its silver grey water.
Our house plays host
to dramas and dreams
but they are beautifully small
in the middle of this
and I have never been so at home.
The trees planted themselves decades ago
in preparation for our boys.
The sea rose and fell for shelled and pebbled eons
that there might be the perfect clatter
when Fergus leaps from the rocks and runs
into the waves
and if three cars go by
within an hour
we say, "Christ, it's busy today!"
This, and us, is home.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 2:02 AM UTC
Through silver maple and winding hedgerow wind-songs sough April’s hearsay. In stoic silence, spring’s axes—shuttered trunks—goad their fruit’s swelling. Clouds tumble in like sea foam, blue splinters flashing out: incorporeal troposphere, a halo entrapped by math.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
In sandaled feet we stroll beside the hedgerow
And Satan’s nettle bites with wicked teeth;
But doctor leaf is growing in abundance:
Open all hours to provide relief.
For God created all things bright and wondrous
And took his rest upon the seventh day;
Then evil set to work with Mother Nature
And led the birds and beasts and bugs astray.
The owl and hawk prey upon helpless creatures:
Vole, shrew and rabbit are their daily bread;
While fox sneaks up and steals the farmer’s poultry
And banquets when the farmer’s in his bed.
Way up above our heads in lofty tree tops
A greater crime’s committed than the rest:
The infant cuckoo murders all his siblings,
By pushing eggs and fledglings from the nest.
Survival of the fittest is important
In order for a species to survive;
If only dodos had been more aggressive-
Then those peculiar birds might be alive.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
Cling to me like ivy
Entrap me with your vines
Wrap tendrils around me
Weave your words with mine
Cling to me like ivy
Linger in my boughs
My branches will embrace you
My senses to arouse
Cling to me like ivy
Meander through my mind
Fascination everlasting
Forever souls entwined
Cling to me like ivy
Together we can grow
Sublime in our purpose
Majestic in the hedgerow
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
How often do you stop?
When ever
do you
listen to the silence?
Do you ever embrace
the total peace
that being
at one
with nature brings?
Reach out and touch the sky.
Watch clouds,
float by.
Be still.
Be quiet.
Only let
the murmur of a breeze,
or the song
of a distant bird,
be heard.
Open
your eyes.
Look up and see,
the delicate blossom
of a woodland tree.
Look down
at wild, hedgerow flowers.
Observe
the easy
bumble bee.
Sit back,
let the silver sand,
be your comfy seat.
Allow the sound
of the rushing tide
to soothe, restore.
Relax, in your retreat.
Gaze up
to the mountains,
magnificent and fine.
Breathe
the pure intoxication,
of the forest air
of pine.
Connect
with spirits
of ancient ancestors,
at their monuments
and burial grounds.
Hear their whispers
from centuries past.
Wallow in their sounds.
Clear your head
of busy chatter.
Banish demons
from your mind.
Embrace the life
of your earth mother,
as you let your soul
unwind.
© Nicki Tilston.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC