February, cold foggy, damp, Winter closes.
Icy fingers steal, life slows down,
But Nature never halts her relentless drive for perfection.
Caw, caw, on a swaying branch In the canopy of the Beech wood
Among the bedsits of the Rookery estate.
A Rook calls to it’s mate, Delivers a posy of silver and gold
The remnants of a cigarette packet To line the bottom of the nest.
Repairing the nest, rebuilding the relationship,
Bringing new life to the raucous dwellings of the canopy.
Building material from far and wide, timber, mud,
Recycling, a makeover of the bed sit.
An atmosphere of urgency before The wind grabs the trees and shakes.
Building work on the estate's slowing, And things settle down to easy living,
A Lull in the proceedings, a siesta. Until the hatching and chirping of new life.
Then, then the explosion of black
A cloud of living feathers rising into the sky,
Into an umbrella of joy over the bedsits.
A frenzy now envelopes the proceedings, To and fro from dawn till dusk,
Filling living quarries, gapping up from the bedsits,
With the noise of never ending Caw, Caw.
The nursery overflows with fledglings
In a never ending stream,
A black mass of throbbing decibels of noise.
Has night descends inhabitants of the estate, Are rocked in their cradles,
Seduced by the wind.
And Silence forms a blanket, Over the Rookery estate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem