I haven’t written a pome (sic) for several years, and then only under university-orchestrated duress, but having been woken by the neighbours at 3:40 (yeah, thanks a lot) my cogs started whirring and once I had three words I couldn’t switch my brain off and that was the end of my night’s kip, so I’m feeling pretty fuzzy right now; best I get this post off.
Huge trunks hug their gathered,
Crossbills nibble at
Mistle throstles whistle
To the harbinger
Why only three seasons? Well, I got to thinking about a mate, Ian, whose partner has just had a baby (bless) and I thought, well, a pregnancy only lasts three seasons; I could dedicate this to baby Amelia thereby securing a free pass that gets me off having to write a fourth section. I was pretty pleased with this idea at 5:40 and resolved to get up at this unearthly time of the morning should I ever need to tap into this devious streak again.
I do love playing about with rhyme (full or slant), it really bakes my strudel. I mean noodle. Nope, I prefer strudel. Noodle is a ridiculous word. Reckon I’ve just improved that idiom immeasurably. I gift it to the world at large.
Not sure a nature poem is the best way to help flog a forthcoming crime novel, but maybe there are poetry buffs out there just waiting for a chance to move into the east London underworld…
If so, you need to hold on a bit longer while I admit I love being out at this time of year and hearing the sound of Mistle Thrush; brightens up any winter’s day. It’s a bootiful singer, as they say in Norfolk. if you don’t believe me…
[Thanks to Richard Dunn of Northumberland for the uppy to xeno-canto under creative commons licence.]
[Edited – for lack of tags. Hard enough to remember at the best of times never mind while I’m only half-functioning. If this dupes in your inbox, sorry, sorry, sorry and…sorry again.]