Posts Tagged RSPB
LOOKING FOR PUFFINS: SOUTH STACK REVISITED – A POEM FOR OUR DAUGHTER
Posted by David Selzer in Poetry on October 29th, 2011
South Stack, Ynys Môn, ©SCES 2009
Of course, by the time it’s my turn at the ’scope
the bugger’s turned its back. ‘It is a puffin,’
reassures the RSPB girl – and,
since she’s pretty and young, I believe
that what I see is not one of the teeming,
noisy, noisome, nesting guillemots,
razorbills or gulls. A hat trick: ageism,
sexism, anthropomorphism – plus
being churlish as a bear rather than
valiant as a lion. Intriguing opposites. Grrr!
We came here last when she was five or six.
Decades on, she stands with her lover
at a turn in the steps – both happy,
both blooming with her longed-for future,
and wrestling with the breeze for your camera.
Some gulls have eschewed the crowded cliffs
to nest in the lighthouse’s disused kitchen garden.
We lean on the wall like pig farmers.
There is a dead chick amongst the gooseberries.
A living one stands, yes, surprised, startled but resolute
though even here winds roar like lions or bears.
I hold my breath…1,2,3…for us all.
CROSBY
Posted by David Selzer in Poetry on January 26th, 2011
Another Place ©SCES 2008
We crunch through razor shells and squelch through
blackish silt – there is coal in the drenched sand -
to reach the artist’s cast iron avatars.
They are steadfast against anglers, vandals,
local Tories, jet skiers, the Coastguard,
and the RSPB – but not the wind
or the sea. Some are rusting deeply,
some barnacled already, some sinking
or rising – others missing on this
shifty shore. They have watched the North Sea.
Now, from here, they can see Snowdonia,
The Skerries, Queenstown, the New World -
and, some, when the tide is in, sea creatures
in their wilderness of oblivion.
Above, ships pass and the wind farm turns.
LOOKING FOR PUFFINS: SOUTH STACK REVISITED – POEM FOR OUR DAUGHTER
Posted by David Selzer in Poetry on December 20th, 2009
South Stack, Ynys Môn, ©SCES 2009
Of course, by the time it’s my turn at the ’scope
the bugger’s turned its back. ‘It is a puffin,’
reassures the RSPB girl – and,
since she’s pretty and young, I believe
that what I see is not one of the teeming,
noisy, noisome, nesting guillemots,
razorbills or gulls. A hat trick: ageism,
sexism, anthropomorphism – plus
being churlish as a bear rather than
valiant as a lion. Intriguing opposites. Grrr!
We came here last when she was five or six.
Decades on, she stands with her lover
at a turn in the steps – both happy,
both blooming with her longed-for future,
and wrestling with the breeze for your camera.
Some gulls have eschewed the crowded cliffs
to nest in the lighthouse’s disused kitchen garden.
We lean on the wall like pig farmers.
There is a dead chick amongst the gooseberries.
A living one stands, yes, surprised, startled but resolute
though even here winds roar like lions or bears.
I hold my breath…1,2,3…for us all.
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