Rain

Lying warmly snug
under the thick duvet
in curtained darkness
faintly lit by sheets
of orange light at the end
of the driveway,
a rattle of pellets
against the windows
lift me part way
from the depths of sleep.

Gusts of wind batter
windows, fence, driveway
with icy bullets then
ease off. Yet rain still
gurgles along gutters,
down drain pipes, the
sound of rushing water
from the skies drowned
out again by roaring
gusty winds. Registering
at last the causes
of this cacophony
I sink down again
into warm dark depths
of consciousness.

Brown land is
greening at last !
Relief !

Previously posted July 2016

Cold

Carried along by
currents of change
in work, relationships,
I found myself living
far from my familiar
climes where we switched
off heating at bedtime,
never used central heating.

Th mountains nearby
now made a pleasant
scenic route to work
in the next town. But
snow made the
winter air so icy.

I coughed so much
a senior colleague
lectured me on doctors
and prescriptions.
I crossed a new frontier
warming my bedroom
nightly with a heater.

Final acclimatisation came
when I bought another car
with new lights and
gadgets on its dashboard.
Each winter morning
I drove to work with
heater purring and
freezing temperature
digits brightly glowing.

Now I shivered
with icy cold
in my new car.

Previously posted July 22016.

Praying Mantis

Praying mantises climb through
the shrubs in the narrow garden
under the front windows
of my little ground level flat.
Their green shapes with leaf like wings
vanish among rose bush leaves;
long thin males, bulge bellied females
about to disgorge dozens of eggs
all hatching their tiny replicas
with narrow flattened faces
and eyes pinned to the sides
of those long thin heads.

The females seeking seclusion
come through my open windows
climbing the walls to the ceiling
swaying in the light with
no leaves to shelter them.
We need all their young mantises.
I catch them and drop them
out of the window
on to the bushes below
where they sway again with
their front legs in praying stance
before climbing down inside
those leafy green lairs.

Previously posted July 2016.

Weta On The Foot

Wetas are similar in size and shape to crickets, though unrelated.
They give a sharp nip, and the barbs on their back legs draw blood when they kick.

The tabby hunter brings trophies
inside; flapping butterflies,
crunched beetles, disembowelled worms,
desperate birds and struggling wetas.
She stops the bells on her collar ringing
no matter what Mummy does.

Mummy said don’t play with wetas,
they bite, their back legs make your
hand bleed when they kick.

The four year old, so fascinated by bugs,
stood staring at a weta on the floor.
It hopped on to her foot, her parents came
running at her piercing screams.
They tried to calm her, to remove the weta,
but she ignored them.

Daddy wrapped one long arm
around her arms and shoulders,
the other long arm
around her legs.

Mummy gripped the leg with one hand
and slowly peeled off the sock.
She kept the sock around the weta,
took it out, tipped it on to a bush.

Clever Mummy !
At last the house was quiet again.
Mummy and Daddy leaned back
exhausted on the couch.

Grandad says someone should explain
to the tabby hunter
that wetas are indigenous,
protected by law.

But Tabby doesn’t care.

Previously posted July 2016