Yesterday, I tried to write a nature poem.
Walked into the reality – the grime of outside. Cold shot-blasting my forehead, my fingers.
And yes, the long-tailed tit looked at me, all chipmunk-cute face and feathered arrow tail feathers.
And yes, there were green carpets just waiting for the bluebells.
And yes, the deer picked around the edge of distant fields.
And yes, the buzzard rose in a majesty of idle flapping.
But it all reminded me of the mess of the world: sporadic starlings strung across the telegraph lines, not enough for a murmuration.
The crow scolding the buzzard, haranguing it to stay away from her eggs.
Acres of wire and concrete, even here, in this ‘wilderness.’
Snow on the distant hills – a winter coming ever closer.
And I thought, ‘maybe I should take “nature writer” out of my bio.’