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Poetry
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| Bird Nesting at Tippethill | |
| By Talisker | ||||
| 11 October 2006 | ||||
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A cruel yet healthy (for me) childhood pastime was bird nesting (egg collecting). We never took a rare bird's egg, but still feel a frisson of guilt. These days such rural pursuits have been replaced by games consoles. The sun scorches my youthful skin, Like a fly under a sadist’s lens. I view the tempting shade within, The dense, dark spruce plantation. But where to enter the scratchy, Impenetrable, man-made forest? And then a path! A magical, Hansel and Grethel tunnel into The darkness. Scary and irresistible In equal measure. Instant coolness, and soft pine-needle pile Beneath my baseball boots. Cathedral Like quiet, only the swish of the whipping Conifer tops. A pigeon’s wings explode In sudden applause and a few white, downy, Belly feathers float serenely to the ground. And the furry ball of a Gold-crest’s nest, Just like my hamster’s, yet dangling Implausibly, like a Christmas tree bauble. I shinny up the tree until the thin trunk, Sways in metronomic unison with my body, Like an upside down pendulum. Then fear catches in my dry throat and I peer down to the distant russet carpet. Regaining my nerve, I reach for the pigeon’s Nest above my head. A mere platform of twigs, And then the thrill. Smooth warm eggs, a Wood pigeon’s in four. I take one egg, And cup it carefully in my hand As I slide carelessly earthwards, Scratched and bruised, yet content. Oli (11/10/06)
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