study of a dead bird

click to enlarge

This handsome woodpecker lost his bearings

and crashed into the French doors at the manor this afternoon.

Skylines tug him apart, winds drink him,

Earth itself unravels him from beneath --

His submission is flawless.

Blueflies lift off his beauty.

Beetles and ants officiate.

Pestering him with instructions.

His patience grows only more vast.

His eyes darken bolder in their vigil

as the chapel crumbles.

His spine survives its religion,

The tests moulder --

The quaint courtly language

of wingbones and talons.

And already

Nothing remains of the warrior but his weapons

And his gaze.

Blades, shafts, unstrung bows -- and the skull's beauty

Wrapped in the rags of his banner.

He is himself his banner and its rags.

While hour by hour the sun

Deepens its revelation.

from The Knight

by Ted Hughes

those elves

These cute things magically appeared overnight from the deluge of
rain we've had this week. They pop open like tiny patio umbrellas in
the sunlight. Or maybe it's the elves, from our "knock on wood"
trees, who open them and take cover from the rain or sizzling sun.



That Elf
Riding his awkward pair of haunchy legs

That weird long-eared Elf
Wobbling down the highway

Don't overtake him, don't try to drive past him,
He's scatty, he's all over the road.
He can't keep his steering, in his ramshackle go-cart,
His big loose wheels, buckled and rusty,
Nearly wobbling off

And all the screws in his head wobbling and loose

And his eyes wobbling


Ted Hughes