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Self isolation- poetry – or something else?

They see me rollin.

Stockpilin’

But what they don’t know

Is that the virus is not in your

Arsicles.

It’s in your chesticles.

So farscicles.

Administration.

“I have something for you mum” are words that every parent knows are laced with a few meanings.

The first is innocent and lovely, probably a little handful of daisies or a hug.

The second, however, is something unwanted, sinister and must be approached with extreme caution and cynicism.

“Oh yes?” comes my reply (raised eyebrow). I am the master after years of being tricked, poker face is on and braced for impact,

And there they are in my hand, a scrunched up pile of months and months of school letters, casually handed over without a single drop of sweat shed.

Months of letters.

Suppose it could have been a slug or a dead spider.

Kaboom

Had a very loud thunderstorm last night. Ended up with a shivering 30kg wreck on me for the rest of the night…

Gone with the Wind.

The black tempest.

She may be small, but she’s a little noise machine of fury.

Bird is the word.

autumn-starlings

I’m dedicating January to the birds that come to my garden. I have no exotic varieties, just your average Joes of the bird world but to me they are wonderful and they think I’m great right now as I’ve hung three brand new feeders from my studio in an attempt to encourage more into my little urban garden.

My house is part of a Victorian terrace built by the miners and their families 150 years ago. A descendent lives a few doors up and says that they were built to house the families who kept chickens and grew their food here.

Fast forward a century or so and the city has grown around these houses and the mines have gone. But the wildlife is still here, hanging on and adapting to the pace of life and the endless rain.

Today’s post is in salute to the starlings that frequent my garden. Sleek and noisy little birds. Starlings are wonderful mimics of sound. They will copy what they hear and repeat it back with relish. Well you can imagine that Swansea is a feast for these little flocks of sound machines. From car alarms, mopeds to mobile phones it is never ever quiet around here and these little birds congregate on the telephone lines in the winter and belt out their whistle and chirps.

In deepest January they are most welcome to strip my feeders, tease my chickens and entertain me in my studio to a Swansea mega mix of noise. Demolishing fat balls within ten minutes and then entertaining me with their sound effects.

One summer morning you could hear the noise of a single alarm clock coming from an open window, within seconds, the voices of twenty alarm clocks were ringing out over the rooftops and telephone wires.

Wakey wakey.

Ghosts of Christmas past.

A little mix of my best bits at Christmas.
I wish you all a peaceful time and remember kindness is always better than a plateful of sprouts.

Christmas spirit

Been laid up ill with flu. That was fun. Somehow it’s now Christmas and I’m in headless chicken panic mode.

One glass wonder.


A poem I made.

I had some wine,
It went to my head,
And off I went,
early to bed.

Kitchen raid.

I’m under attack from a little, black, permanently ravenous cat.
(Not that she’s been put on a diet by the vet or anything for being a bit chunky).

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