My Spring Tynedale - By Derek A. Sim

Oh! To hear the curlew call, from field, and fell, and moor,
whose presence closes winter’s door, proclaiming spring for sure.
Her dainty call on silent hill, such music to my ear,
she brings the sun to melt the snow, and sweep the grey skies clear.
‘Tis March, the time that mad hares box; cock pheasants fight for hens,
and all of the wader’s congregate, on marshes, bogs, and fens.

The rooks return to nests of old, preparing for their brood,
the magpie hops along the hedgerows, scavenging for food.
The harvest mouse and vole emerge, from months of winter sleep,
foraging the farmer’s fields, stealthily they creep.
For hanging in the sky above, the kestrel eye’s his prey,
one unguarded moment, and he steals his quarry away.

The petrol coloured lapwing darts in acrobatic flight,
to watch this aerial fly-past… for me is sheer delight.
She swoops down low then climbs the sky, then tumbles out of sight,
she skims the moor then up again, windswept as a kite.
The hares run wild and random, like rags in the blowing wind,
as their place on the fox’s menu, they’re attempting to rescind.

Brilliant white and resplendent in his ermine winter coat,
another predator scours the land, the intrepid little stoat.
His favourite dish is rabbit, which he’ll corner before the attack,
he’s cunning and determined, pushing toward a cul-de-sac.
He’s fussy and discerning, and he only takes what’s best,
he drinks their blood then eats his fill, discarding all the rest.

High above, the buzzard soar’s, in effortless gliding flight,
he’ll take the remains of any meal, and devour with such delight.
He’s lazy and quite cumbersome, and prefers his meal prepared,
he’ll even consider road kill, no chase; already dead.
He’ll carry it off to feed his brood; who wait with mouth’s agape,
nestled amongst the poplars, high above the oil-seed rape.
Written by Derek A. Sim