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wood pigeon

CHANCE INTIMATIONS

By David SelzerJune 11, 20260 Comments1 min read243 views

Rain is crossing the estuary from the west

in impenetrable shrouds of grey.

Not far from the old quay, against dark reeds,

a Great Egret is poised – its whiteness statuesque,

its yellow beak ominously bright in the gloom.

As we leave for home in a stygian downpour,

windscreen wipers keeping time, the bird,

which we first saw on the Nile, and now here

near the Irish Sea, is still luminous.

How far we have travelled in thirty years –

some of us on wingbeats across seas;

some of us mostly in our heads and hearts!

As I write a Wood Pigeon is fluting

in the chimney – its short, sad roundelay

wistful, hinting at at least one more spring.

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By David Selzer

VIRTUALLY BIRDLESS IN ASSISI

By David SelzerJuly 30, 20130 Comments1 min read1.5K views

For Sarah: always a conservationist, latterly a twitcher.

i

In Umbria – the cuore verde of pristine, wooded hills,

Orvieto’s honey-pale wines,

the paintings of Perugino and Pisano,

the Tiber’s milky jade,

tartufo nero –

they stew thrush.

ii

At least once in our suburban garden,

house sparrow, green finch, ring-necked dove, wren,

jay, wood pigeon, robin, starling, swift, jackdaw, blue tit,

magpie, blackbird, sparrow hawk, chaffinch, swallow,

gold crest, bull finch, great tit, hen harrier, mistle thrush

have, variously, courted, mated, nested, birthed, ate, shat, killed,

bobbed, waddled, hopped, walked, pecked, fluttered, shrieked,

whistled, warbled, squawked and died.

iii

But, above all, sang – that esoteric music,

rich and varied as their plumage:

untutored, uncultivated, unstinting.

iv

Though only crows circle St. Francis’ basilica,

in Cheshire ostriches are farmed.

How accidents of diet, doctrine, sentiment and flag

determine extinction!

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By David Selzer

THE SUBURBS OF FOLLY

By David SelzerDecember 18, 20100 Comments1 min read1.6K views

OR CARE IN THE COMMUNITY

People new to the neighbourhood soon notice,

rising from one of the walled gardens

or the terraced yards, an occasional

bird call – wood pigeon or even cuckoo?

Distracted by the previous owners’ always

doubtful detritus, it takes them longer

to realise the sounds are human though

of indeterminate age and gender.

Exchanging a Victorian madhouse

for a gentrified Victorian suburb,

making ambiguous bird noises rather

than rocking to and fro in the urine-stink

must be better – but no less sad, no more

purposeful, still unconscionable.

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By David Selzer

PERSPECTIVES

By David SelzerJuly 31, 20100 Comments1 min read1.6K views

From the long window on the half landing, I saw,

almost as soon as you had filled the small bird feeders

under the pine and come inside, the big beasts land

to eat the scattered seeds – three wood pigeons, two turtle doves

and a solitary magpie – then a cat appear, the birds scramble

and you again, shooing.

From where the hawk stoops, I heard the magpie’s

irrelevant chatterings, saw a tableau of live flesh;

saw our Victorian suburb from where the airplane flies –

heard nothing above the thrumming of the engines;

from beyond the stratosphere, saw somewhere

still not yet silenced by the enveloping yellow

of the Sahara or the Arctic’s melting blue.

From the long window, I heard the next track begin –

late Billie Holiday, ‘Dancing Cheek to Cheek’ –

heard her miss the key change yet again, promised myself

never to play it yet again.

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By David Selzer

VIRTUALLY BIRDLESS IN ASSISI

By David SelzerJuly 23, 20093 Comments1 min read3.7K views

The Dodo, Ustad Mansur, Agra, 1610

For Sarah: always a conservationist, latterly a twitcher.

i

In Umbria – the cuore verde of pristine, wooded hills,

Orvieto’s honey-pale wines,

the paintings of Perugino and Pisano,

the Tiber’s milky jade,

tartufo nero –

they stew thrush.

ii

At least once in our suburban garden,

house sparrow, green finch, ring-necked dove, wren,

jay, wood pigeon, robin, starling, swift, jackdaw, blue tit,

magpie, blackbird, sparrowhawk, chaffinch, swallow,

gold crest, bull finch, great tit, hen harrier, mistle thrush

have, variously, courted, mated, nested, birthed, ate, shat, killed,

bobbed, waddled, hopped, walked, pecked, fluttered, shrieked,

whistled, warbled, squawked and died.

iii

But, above all, sang – that esoteric music,

rich and varied as their plumage:

untutored, uncultivated, unstinting.

iv

Though only crows circle St. Francis’ basilica,

in Cheshire ostriches are farmed.

How accidents of diet, doctrine, sentiment and flag

determine extinction!

Pages:

Share

By David Selzer