Of Winged Things (Corona Of Wreathed Quatrains) Poem by Gert Strydom

I. A yellow weaver

Time and again I see it fluttering
a small thing on the gate of the driveway
each day stretching, shaking its tiny wings,
while it sings, it’s as if I see it play

to portray a game that just weavers knows,
as the breeze blows it is twittering,
with feathers shining, quickly out it throws
in a own show paws and beak and its wing;

delighting with feathers yellow and sleek
somewhat meek I see it with colours shining,
with dogs wining giving me a small peek,
in the week I hear a pretty bird sing.


II. A black-collard barbet

During the week I hear a pretty bird sing
joy it brings to my old stuffy study
joy of being free, right where it’s sitting,
it sings as if it is singing only to me

very sublimely it visits me daily
in pure glee with a voice quite startling,
it sings from early light happy and gaily,
in beauty the notes keeps on ringing,

something happens and one day it is gone,
it moves on and I watch until darkness;
missing its kindness, I am the only one,
on a stone it’s out in the wilderness.


III. A thrush

To bless it is out in the wilderness
displaying goodness far from its own nest
singing at its best in pure happiness
without distress far away from the rest;

very modest I came upon a thrush
in the bush blessing me totally profound,
I did it found, in the veldt, deep into the brush,
in a holy hush I heard the loveliest sound

of unbound glory somewhere on a branch,
nothing could enhance its beauty on the eye
it was shy as on it I did then glance;
by mere chance, I heard a jubilant cry.


IV. A singing falcon

As I passed by, I heard a jubilant cry,
I felt as if I was very unworthy
in serenity it was ringing from the sky,
where high up it did fly and came to me.

Quite free I saw a forlorn bird trembling
a shadowing spectre against the blue,
reflecting its hue, it was again singing;
on a wing notes of its clear voice were true.

The sound did subdue, it was wavering,
becoming a small thing by its own choice,
it had poise with the high hill answering;
in spring in nature I heard a quiet voice.

V. A bush shrike

Not by choice I heard a very quiet voice,
a voice that was soft but still quite sublime
in its sheer prime outdoing all human noise,
turquoise the sky glowed at that time

like a perfect rhyme when least expecting it,
it did fit in its presence filled with joy,
without ploy it sang a song bit by bit
high notes it hit as a Godly envoy,

like a hidden decoy it was singing clearly,
it spoke to me, sang directly to the heart,
from the start it caught me very early,
bringing tranquillity in its joyful art.

VI. A raven

Apart from my life of some joyful art
in it did dart with a gleaming black coat
croaking like a goat, but looking quite smart,
it did depart with a sudden screeching note,

it was remote in the beyond that pleases him
getting dim past the old church’s weather vane,
like a stain, but my eyes began to swim
my sight was slim like a dirty window pane,

I felt inane and at its chosen height
almost out of sight against the blue sky,
it went by in its strong travelling flight,
it might draw me, fluttering it does fly.


VII A butterfly

When it is dry, fluttering it does fly,
to catch it I try, as it searches nectar,
near and far using its curios eye,
as a spy or like a wandering star

going over tar and inspecting tenderly
quite free acting with care, acting with grace
it does amaze finding a medley,
a sanctuary as it goes from place to place

it’s not commonplace, it’s without anxiety
that I see a lovely bright fragile thing,
thriving on a special variety
with almost piety I see it fluttering.