Summer Visitors.

Summer months return,
Tysties too.
Old stone walls,
home for a few.

Fast wings flash,
Across the scene.
Black and white,
against deep harbour green.

Tourists gather,
the lucky lot.
But no-one sees,
the Black Guillemot.

The End of a November Day.

We heard them long before we saw them.

The unseasonably warm and sunny November day was fast drawing to a close.

The sky in the west was beginning to darken with cotton wool clouds floating across an empty sky like tiny orange powder puffs while slimmer purple streaks like strokes from an artists brush were appearing just above the distant horizon.

Trees and hedges were changing from their autumn gold colours into stunning ink like black stand alone shapes back lit with pink and red like huge silent mannequins in a closed shop window.

Then suddenly there they were,a huge gregarious gaggle of geese flying high in the sky heading westwards,their positions within the skein ever changing as first one then another took over the lead role.Every now and then the whole shape of the formation seemed to move as one as large flapping wings and now fading calls slowly disappeared into the sunset.

We heard them long after they flew from sight.

Walking with Wagtails!

Wickedly,strutting with an air of pose
tripping along the tarmac road.

Wildly running,a stop then a dash
black and white,rushes past.

Waggling eratically from kerb to kerb
you nimbly trot without a nerve

Washtail & Willie your names but a few,
Water Wagtail from me to you.

On The Marsh.

The overnight rain was seeping noisily away into the saturated boggy ground and dirty puddles oozed slowly out of the muddy weedy verges.

Wildfowl appeared as dark silhouettes upon the grey cold water,occasionally rising in a fervent of feathers,dripping droplets from flashing wings beating increasingly faster as they rose from the surface only to land a few yards further on.Alarmingly angled webbed feet braking their clumsy performances while indignant quacks at their disturbance pierced the damp air.

A startled Heron rose with a harsh squawk from a ditch in the field alongside,large wings struggling to gain enough lift in the still of the morning as he dragged long trailing legs behind,he settled further on with a tremble of feathers and a flick of his crest.

Busy Waders of various shapes and sizes all knee deep in the muddy margins scurried around in their incessant search for food,a squabble causing wings and feet to be waved at various close encounters before their wanderings separated them again.

A large flock of twittering Finches flitted across our path and descended haphazardly onto the huge brown seed heads that cover large parts of the marsh, their gold and red colours only becoming visible from closer inspections as we continued slowly on our way.