halftwo
Wird Batcher
Dawn: the ghost of a hundred bonfires hangs in a sulphurous haze above the slope where the jut of winter wheat pricks the soil and morning's first bird - a Buzzard - struts.
A thin crack propagates in the brittle bowl of the palest porcelain sky: the path of a Peregrine heading for the church. She perches: a gargoyle on the steeple, looking west above the mist.
First frosts skim the brambles' leaves as light begins to thicken and birds begin to gather in the field - Rooks and gulls, half-hidden beneath the veil.
Then, way up, way off, the estuary-yelps of Pink-footed geese draws closer, and suddenly they are visible: a long ragged chevron heading east towards the rim of the sun, high enough to catch the new light and shimmer - necks like wet eels. Their wild voices fill the cold void even as, too soon, they fade.
And under the skein a Redpoll, its lesser call tripping from its tiny form, bounds above the trees, eastward too. Now a soft hissing from Long-tailed tits - mist escaping from the wood - replaces the sound. A Grey wagtail's spike pierces the clearing air as eight Bullfinches undulate into the poplar tops and melt into the shrubs beneath.
The Peregrine has gone, unseen, as the sun crabs up the horizon's trees, burnishing the turning oak, and liquifying the frosts. A Great-spotted woodpecker watches from the topmost mast as a loose flock of Fieldfares, chacking softly, heads south.
Horizontal sunshine slants off the Rooks' wings like a wet skimming stone and Starlings mill about amongst the green spikes of wheat-shoots. A Goldfinch begins to sing, a tiny jewel in the ash crown.
Dawn has come and gone and the winter sun, barely bouyant above the trees, shines cold light on the day.
A thin crack propagates in the brittle bowl of the palest porcelain sky: the path of a Peregrine heading for the church. She perches: a gargoyle on the steeple, looking west above the mist.
First frosts skim the brambles' leaves as light begins to thicken and birds begin to gather in the field - Rooks and gulls, half-hidden beneath the veil.
Then, way up, way off, the estuary-yelps of Pink-footed geese draws closer, and suddenly they are visible: a long ragged chevron heading east towards the rim of the sun, high enough to catch the new light and shimmer - necks like wet eels. Their wild voices fill the cold void even as, too soon, they fade.
And under the skein a Redpoll, its lesser call tripping from its tiny form, bounds above the trees, eastward too. Now a soft hissing from Long-tailed tits - mist escaping from the wood - replaces the sound. A Grey wagtail's spike pierces the clearing air as eight Bullfinches undulate into the poplar tops and melt into the shrubs beneath.
The Peregrine has gone, unseen, as the sun crabs up the horizon's trees, burnishing the turning oak, and liquifying the frosts. A Great-spotted woodpecker watches from the topmost mast as a loose flock of Fieldfares, chacking softly, heads south.
Horizontal sunshine slants off the Rooks' wings like a wet skimming stone and Starlings mill about amongst the green spikes of wheat-shoots. A Goldfinch begins to sing, a tiny jewel in the ash crown.
Dawn has come and gone and the winter sun, barely bouyant above the trees, shines cold light on the day.
