Lucy English's Unsprung poem

Wonderful! Another dimension to enjoyment of this programme...

After this poem was read out on the programme, Martin Hughes-Games asked viewers to send in their own poems. Any idea how to do this as I can't see any links for it. Thank you.

My 9 year daughter Rebecca asked if I could post two of her autumn poems she has wrote to hopefully be read out.



Autumn



Autumn leaves are turning brown,

They fall and tumble down,

Hedgehogs sleep,

Squirrels seek,

Autumns back in town.





I'm Bonkers for Conkers



I'm looking for some conkers

They're not just anywhere,

They say we have a shortage

And that the trees are bare.



I'm looking for some conkers

Are they hiding on the ground,

Under soggy twigs and leaves

Just waiting to be found.



I'm looking for some conkers

Shiny, big and bright,

And when we hang them on a lace

We can have a conker fight.

When ‘Lippy’ Returns





Never could I explain



This sort of kind of pain



Missing a sound in silence



And longing to hear again







The noise that so invaded



My daily thoughts or task



Perpetual and intrusive



Until I just had to ask







That was the day, I think in May



When I could take no more



I put down everything I touched



I needed to be sure







What unknown in the trees outside



Was singing all day long



From early morn ‘till late of eve



The most exquisite song







With scarcely a break to breathe



It sang and sang all day



I had to know, just had to know



What creature’d come my way







Of course I knew it was a bird



What else could it have been?



Stealthily I looked and searched



For sight of the sound unseen







For just a glimpse of this singing ‘God’



With joy and beauty in warbling shrill



Such intensity of note in throat



Such purpose, chattering, knowingly still







This little bird, I was to learn



Was a Black Cap but with so much to say



I called him ‘Lippy’ and loved to listen



To his glorious song each day









But come the early months of summer



‘Lippy’ went away



Silence fell, enchantment went



I miss him, what can I say







The days seem dull, the sky is grey



I’m hearing nothing since he flew away



It’s Autumn now the nights are long



The darkness fills the day







Could it be that he’ll return



That little soul of song?



If it is, then I will wait



The winter months e’er long







So that I may once again



Enjoy this songbird’s call



Or should I just be grateful



He came to me at all?







Here parkland trees are tall and leafy



Was this his new domain?



Or was he simply passing through



En route to a new terrain?







I wonder, how I wonder



If I will wake one morn



To hear again what I’ve been missing



His song for me at dawn

These are two poems written by me though neither of them are very good.



Goodbye warm weather



Drip,drip,raindrops fall from the sky,

while black clouds go scudding by.

A chill wind blows, it cuts the skin,

howling and whistling with an awful din.

Leaves turning to orange and then slowly to brown,

soon to the ground they'll come drifting down.

Autumn's back and birds take wing,

but the heralds will come back to announce the spring.



Waiting for spring



Arms stretching to the sky

all alone he stands there

eyes turned to the heavens.



Squirrels play in his green hair

ants live by his feet

surrounded by life but alone.



His voice is silent

never says a word

standing there in the cold.



Head that is now barren

in a deep slumber

waiting for spring.



A life that is simple

no worries or strife

it's good to be a tree.

Poem by Sheila Frost 1:30pm 24 oct.2010



AT NIGHT IN MY GARDEN



I`m looking down the garden

As the day is slowly fading

Long are the shadows cast by the trees

And underneath where there is shading

Hide the little creatures that I`m waiting to see



There, going at top speed

Scampers a little mouse, out from the garden wall

He is so fast, just like a flash, that I am wondering

If I really saw him at all

So I sit here pondering



Then in the gathering darkness

My eyes are drawn to another garden guest

Sniffling and snuffling he`s always hurrying

Looking to see which slugs are the best

Then off goes the hedgehog, still scurrying



Now it is quite dark in the garden

So I put on the light

The moths are drawn to it as if to a flame

Such lovely creatures to be out just at night

And not seen in the day, it seems such a shame



Now it`s getting quite late

And I`m off to my bed

So I will have to beg your pardon

But it has to be said

That I`m glad to have seen

What goes on at night, in my garden!

Unsprung is getting better every week



With lovely Kate, handsome Martin and Chris 'the geek'



What would autumn be



Without this program of the BBC

I've also accepted Martin's invitation to post an Autumn poem!



Now Autumn’s Along



Berries born of heat haze and red held in frost stun

Fallow lawns slowing to mist laden crawl



Summer unsprung lies in coiled leaves and web

High tide cools in transient human gloom



Yet spinning far from sun a wild beats on

Seals pup new breath on to cold rock beaches



Bird brigades changing of guard and plume

Stare down Fall’s offensive defiant in song



Bat dipper and deer push life to gasp after all

Life hunts essence all vital now Autumn’s along

Here is my Poetic Contribution on the Autumwatch Theme.



A Season of change is

U pon us again.

T he leaves changing colour

U nder Darkening skies.

M igrants arrive, migrants depart,

N uts are collected and stored.

W armth of our houses

A ttracting the Spiders

T he wildlife presenters they rate

C hris that is Packham and

H umble thats Kate...



Robin Smith Kent. (flickr robster33)

Poem!

Seal Morning



Sea-sentinel, guarding our shore

Porpoising in the swell, a bull seal

Etched on the morning sky bright with the day's promise



I salute you with the sun arising

Wade into your oceanic depth

Wet-suited, a look-alike seal, watching...



Your every move as if it were my own.

Salt of sea, blood and life

I learn to swim as you do...



Flow with and into the moments

That make up any human day

Sealed with your presence.



Ann Palmer, Outer Hebrides

My poem - such as it is:

Summer is now drawing to a close

It won't be long before the Winter snows

But first the Autumn paves the way

With skies no longer blue, but grey.



The fading leaves have had their chance

And fluttering and spinning as in a dance

They slowly fall to rot and die

Leaving branches bare against the sky.



But Autumn holds a magic spell

In the cold damp air, the musty smell

Of earth and death - the year is through

How long before it starts anew.



Jane Nunn Cheshire c.1979

Here is my poem, inspired by the team at Unsprung:



Watching Autumn



Deciduous trees lose their last hints of green

And transform into glorious golds

Branches bow gracefully, burdened with fruit

As the feast time of autumn unfolds



A hedgehog, all prickles sniffs curiously

At the crispness that tinges the air

He knows it is time to make camp from the leaves

That have fallen in mounds everywhere



Industrious spiders in all shapes and sizes

Spin glistening silken displays

Adorned in their crystals from cold morning dew

The webs dance in the sun’s morning rays



Out in the countryside Red Deer perform

In their battles of muscle and might

All sinew and strength yet with thoughts of romance

These great beasts ferociously fight



Up at the coasts on the eddies of air

Dance the sounds feared by sailors of old

Like the sirens and mermaids of legends they call

As they do in some stories still told



But unlike the stories these magical songs

Are announcements of life by grey seals;

Proud mothers protecting their bundle of fur

From the fears of existence it feels



In the sapphire blue skies there are swallows that rise

Chirping final goodbyes as they go

Geese now arriving, exhausted from flying

Return from the north and the snow



What a season of visions of beauty

Of sounds of the sea, land and skies

Just a small taste of Natures great bounty

-Autumn is all creatures’ prize!



Angela 62 October 2010

..And here is my little boy's poem (Jamie aged 7)



Autumn is a happy time

It deserves to be enjoyed

When all the leaves are falling

Down

To the ground



The colours of Autumn

Are orange and red and gold

Autumn deserves to be sunny

For the chirping birds

In the branches

Of the forest

Here's a little something I whipped up.



Tawny Owl



The invisible hunter,

Sitting silent in the bronzing leaves.

Gone are the vibrant greens of summer,

Here is the blazing inferno of gold, green and red.



She's watching,

Watching with eyes wider than the full moon,

Which hangs over the forest on a string.

It observes and protects the hutner's world.



The hunter understands.

She knows how her world hangs in the balance.

Just the slightest tip this way or that,

And everything she knows would be destroyed.





I'm sure that could've been better, but hey ho

Robinlover1995 xx

My goodness, how I love this poem, but even more so when I took it and applied my own experiences on the skeleton of the piece and made it personal by starting with “I live by...” It truly gave the area in which I live a dimension that had otherwise remained, vocabulary-wise, elusive. Thank you for another delightful series by which we can enjoy so much.

Here's my contribution to the Poetry request ...



AUTUMN LAMENT (for Hampstead)



The garden groweth freely and the overgrowth is green,

Cement placed o'er the scattered soils and tree roots now unseen.

A pair of tights, they hangeth 'neath the bush against the wall

Though lost amid the autumn leaves when toadstools climbeth tall.



This garden, sprouting forth its goods of vegetable and fruit,

A sight no eye could bear to miss, nor heaven dare to suit;

It thriveth here in Hampstead where the robins choose to nest,

Where saplings choke beneath the bricks and rhubarb goes to rest.



The luxury abiding here within this nature bed

Preserveth all the gifts of life if courteously they tread

Through iron rods which flourish bright beside the water tank

And rubble from the last repairs upon this grassy bank.



'Tis splendour, come the rains and storms

When green discards its present forms

And riseth up the haw and hip

To frame this growing refuse tip

Upon which crows scream, circling high,

Safely in the awesome sky.

I enjoyed Lucy's poem. I too have a poem for you.



THE SWAN



Silent and graceful,

A magnificent sight,

With a neck so slender,

In shades of white,

Opening her wings,

She takes to the sky,

An angel she seems,

As she soars upon high,

A spirit that's free,

As free as a song,

Is she an angel?

Or is she a swan?



Love your program



Linda

Love the poem and how clever to put it together during the show and so involve both personal experience and that of the viewers and presenters. As Kate asked 'how do you rhyme with chaos?' - to write such a calm, subtle and beautiful piece in the midst of Mrs Bitey and all, shows real talent. Clearly Lucy has inspired a lot of poetry - wonderful.

Starlings



And millions came, a swarm, a cloud

and wove themselves to concave swirls

and complex, convex moving shapes that

re-arranged and flowed upon an empty

sepia sky the setting sun had drained the colours from.



Their canvas for this silent movie hour



And earthbound, awestruck, silent we,

who've walked upon the silver moon,

caused nuclear fusion, fission, fear,

stood breath-held, moveless, asking why?



And just before disintegration into feathered, blackened rags

they wove a double helix of themselves

that spread from one horizon to another;

formed, then rolled, then formed themselves again

into a momentary explanation.



Because we can

Because we are

Because we must.

I would like to post my poem



Signs of Autumn



After summer flowers of every hue and shade

Comes a sadness as they swiftly start to fade;

But following on is one of the favourite seasons

A countryside walk will give you the reasons.

Wonderous sights are there to view

Like a spider's web bejewelled with dew

And shafts of sunlight filtering through gold coloured trees

As their foliage shimmer gently in the breeze.

Fresh fallen leaves lie crisp on the ground

And the distinctive song of the starling a familiar sound.

Breathtaking skies as the sun sinks in the west

And the berries of the hawthorn now looking their best.

You might see squirrels collecting their nuts

Or pause to watch raindrops as they drip into butts.

Look there's a family of hedgehogs seeking a location

For a well earned hibernation.

But soon the night air will take on a nip

As the icy fingers of winter secure a grip.



Ron Rogers from Winterbourne

Good to hear some poetry on the programme, but you invited us to send in more but I can find nowhere to send them



cheers



nick owen

Twenty heartbeats grounded, each feeding feet first, pounding out, with drum roll beak, a tweak, and by the toil a worm becomes relinquished from this half-sodden soil. Grey streak striking past the vicinity (where it ought not to be), shrike like ballast of a bill, help keep it still, as wings and body buffet in the smiting, fighting wind and are rocked begrudgingly to and fro. These are cold.

I stop looking through the window to take a break, of warming hot herbal tea, as the water comes to a boil and find that in its wake, whilst I wasn’t watching, the other birds having been disrupted, have flown on their way. Yet up in a bare tree, (ash - its leaves on the ground juggle in a jiggery-jig as the kettle steaming song, pipes down, its last), a lonely non-flighty flier hops from branch to branch ever higher. I watch. After all, (how comforting), it’s his home patch.

Brilliant idea for viewers to submit their poems - some lovely ones here - this is my humble offering:



A Hart in Hertfordshire



Chilled fingertips clutching flasked hot chocolate

Anticipation misting up the windscreen of fate

Will this be my lucky dawning deer stalking morn?

Or will the battling stags leave us standing – forlorn?



Shrugs and smiles as the watchers hopefully gather round

Whispers give way to ears straining for the hint of a sound

The mist hangs low as grasses on a proud stag’s head

The chill breeze sends to us the groan of a single stag, unfed



He summons his hinds, their dark fur outlined in the low light

We look on – gleeful imposters as the challenger moves in

They crash head on – rattling through trees in earnest fight

The survival of their genes their trophy and no malicious sin



The interlopers move on, witnesses to the just war

Returning chastened to our own daily plastic rut race

We turn our keys , still awed , to face our new folk lore

I see a road kill - a pregnant hind – in the harem an empty place



On witnessing the Ashridge Deer rut 18 October 2010

What's that in the bush, is that not speckled thrush,

 No let's look so near, it Kate humble and chris Peckham over their



Kate's Curley locks the birds would love,a blonde comfortable nest,for any ring necked dove



Chris peckhams pockets are always normally full, sadly the contents normally smell so awful



Spring or autumn they watch the wildlife go by, but do they realise,

Bill oddies still also watching from a nearby laybay



Unsprung finally comes at the end,to keep us updated from the woods end, Martin always has a clever line to show, buts it's level head Jo, who is the real star of the show



Whether it be a badger,lark or deer,we all can't wait for more autumn watch to be here



Kerry Harper 

Nottingham 

Grey Seal Pup



I stretch open my body upon the icey rocks,

Soothing my aches and joints into the warm waters,

Splashing and caressing the rocks with each coming tide,

Opening my blacky pearls,

Glistening in the sunrays kisses,

A sight for dreamy eyes,

A feast to come,

From mother dearest,

My nostrails flair,

Inhaling that intoxicating aroma of sweet salty seas,

Tasting the bittersweet at last of a fishy feast,

Oh how wonderful!

As the flesh of fish jigs upon my taste buds.



After the feast,

A goodnight kiss from my love,

As we prepare for resting slumbers,

Gazing into the crowd,

Listening to dusks song in the distance,

To gaze at the dawn

Greeting in the night,

Wishing a ballet dance upon the open waters,

Perhaps tomorrow will be the day,

The day where I make my debut,

Dancing in the waves,

Creating my songs for the sea,

A seasons finalie,

Maybe tomorrow.

This is a poem my 10 year old son wrote - I love it!



Harvest Life Today



In the cornfield, sticks of gold from the sun; a goldrush.



From the firey furnace of the beach the fish swim beneath the sparkling sea.



In the forest golden brown, birds sing forever and apples drop from the trees onto the brown, leafy forest floor.



This is natures gift for life.





by Finley

Lovely Starling poem by Grace Oliver (no. 19), I think that's a real beauty.



Here's one I wrote when I learnt the beautiful Japanese word 'momijigari', which translates as red leaf hunting. How fantastic to have a word for enjoying the colours of autumn!



It does not feature in our tongue

momijigari

no translation



for that quiet observance,

old as man,

of the curtains of colour falling.



It started in the walled garden

overblown roses

the patter of beech mast on gravel

a whisper of chill

of damp

of change

and silver birch turning gold,

leaves starring the grass where we lay.



We share the subtle shifts -

maple prints on my pavement

your cherry shedding leaves over winter cabbages



elm, yellow

beech, orange

oak, brown

virginia creeper, crimson, scarlet



we will watch bracken burnish on the fellsides

we will walk hand-in-hand among drifts of October.



All chlorophyll has done

is hide what lay beneath.

The Descent of Autumn



The hushing of the leaves

Tell me it’s time

The hordes of summer gone

The dogs and cars

That they sprung from



The Pheasants retreat

To sheltered fall lawns

As the trees around catch fire, discerning

That the clamour of man

Has given way to the forest voice returning



But I will stay

Through frost and slush, gales and fog

I will walk within your hands

Search for the last glimpse before

The serpent sleeps within your land



The fireside huggers

Will never know cold chocolate branches

Fringed with icing sugar ice

Or see the skeleton of trees

Reach through the frozen fog’s grey light



They’ll never understand

The beauty

Of a sodden black wet day

Sowing seeds inside me

That will never go away



Or know the footfall of the deer

Cut dead

On the winter silenced path

Hear the calling of the Brambling

As he hunts amongst the mast



Or see the Forest King

Against late winter’s

Blazing blue

Skydance once again for me

As he decrees that winter’s through

Mrs Bitey



A furry friend called Mrs Bitey

Held onto Chris o’ so tighly,

On his lap was sat

This eager polecat

And gave him a jolly good frightey!

Autumn

-

You know when autumn’s coming,

Spiders weave their webs,

Flowers fading tones,

And sunlight slowly ebbs,

When beads of dew,

Sparkle in the grass,

An earthy smell,

Of summers past,

When fungi bloom,

And apples fall,

The berries tumble,

And redwings call.

I would like to add my poem to the list of excellent others.





The Wood in Autumn



Walking through this autumn wood is quite magical

The sun shinning through the sparse canopy

of leaves red, gold and green being lifted by the breeze

The breeze tickles the silver birch leaves

and the sun strikes the trunk turning it to silver silk

A pheasant with bright red and iridescent feathers glinting in the sun

struts by

A grey squirrel sitting, testing an acorn ready for storing for winter

A crow overhead cawing loudly to make his voice heard on that breeze

And a robin, singing his winter song

The clouds cover the sun the magic --- gone.



Marion Halfpenny

Here is my poetry contribution:



An Autumn Walk at Holkham



A sandy lane is winding along the edge of the wood

And the turkey oaks arch their branches, crooked against the sky,

Whilst tiny acorns scatter, falling softly in the autumn air.



Go past the sleeping pool where spoonbills huddle in the corner,

Gossiping, nodding and dipping their bills in the clear water.

Threatening clouds are gathering, leaden-grey, ever closer,

Yet still the sun shafts obliquely down, tinting the quiet scene with gold.



Lightening shatters the sultry, humid air and thunder rumbles angrily.

A toad sits, motionless, upon the path and raises his head to the coming storm.

Rain splashes down, gushing over every pore of his warty skin.

Slowly he crawls to the leafy edge and hides, refreshed, satiated.



The lane ends abruptly at a forbidding fence, blocking the way

And so to enter the strangeness of the wood and retrace one’s steps,

Following the line of the sea hidden behind sand dunes

That rise to meet the clearing sky.



The wood is a silent world of shadows and muted hues,

Cut off from life outside, existing in a mysterious vacuum.

The way is overgrown, becoming a thorny tangle of scrub and fallen logs

Designed to trip and scratch any who dare to intrude into natures’ wilderness.



Delicate webs stretch their lace like filmy curtains between the tree trunks

And once breached, their sticky fingers cling to face and hands.

A hare is startled and bounds along, his scut bobbing rhythmically.

He pauses, stares with curious eyes, before disappearing into the undergrowth.



We step out from the grey gloom into the glare of white sand

That stretches down to the distant blur of the ebbing sea.

Mounds of starry flower cups nestle amongst spikes of green,

Surviving in this dry wasteland, buffeted by the salty winds.



Horses carefully pick their way across the firm, wide sands,

Trembling with restraint, anticipating the thrill of the chase through the waves.

Their riders give them full rein to dash wildly, mains and tails flowing,

Laughing and free, glad to be alive.



Holkham in September, the weakening sun an echo of summer heat.

A treasure trove of memories, jealously stored, to be taken out and counted,

Miser like, a warm glow on cold winter days for years to come.

Like Mark Coventry earlier, I have registered with the BBC, and set a password, but I simply cannot find a clear link , or even a "log in" box, whereby to contribute, comemnt or add a poem etc. I have spent an hour in this maze, and it is so frustrating. The FAQs is no help at all.

Can some other nature/poetry lover please help; I know you have sussed it because you are all adding your own poems :) Thanks

Steve

Ravens



Fly! Fly! Raven’s child.

Feel wind streaming,

Streaking, sleeking,

Through midnight feathered wings.



Dance! Dance! Raven’s child.

Join us twirling,

Whirling, swirling,

Crossing, rushing,

Brushing, touching,

A raven’s roundelay.



Look! Look! Raven’s child.

Crags are gleaming,

Glimmering, shimmering.

Crystal streams hold

Emeralds twinkling,

Sapphires glinting,

Sparkling jewels of summer days.



Raven’s child now one of three,

Flies and dances,

Whirling, swirling.

Feels wind streaming,

Sees crags gleaming.

Raven’s child is child no more.

Raven’s child knows raven’s lore.



© Gill Tucker

Hello Martin, Kate and Chris,



After much cajoling from my soul-mate John, I have decided to take the plunge and send you some of my poems.

I absolutely adore nature and love to write about it, although I am too shy normally to show anyone, so here goes...



One extra sunny day



Sat with my face turned towards the sun

willing the clouds to stay far, far away

absorbing every single ray I can

wishing for just one extra sunny day.



All is still green, growing madly around

the faces of the flowers in their last flush

before setting their seeds for next years show

everything now seems in such a mad rush!



Taking as much as they possibly can

nourishment for the cold months ahead

the plants, the flowers and animals too

all preparing their comfy winter beds.



All too soon the white frosts will come

warning most of the plants not to grow

but to tuck their roots snugly under the soil

Nature’s Winter-blanket, protecting their toes.



With squirrels hoarding nuts close to their drey

mice stocking up food in their larder

while birds eat and cache as much as they can

hoping this winter won’t be any harder.



All living things relish the last summer sun

sharing the unique warmth that it brings

begrudgingly accepting that cold months will come

but all wishing for that warm early spring!



So I’ll pack away all my summery things

as my solar-power lights refuse to run

and I will hibernate in my cosy warm home

waiting eagerly for next years Golden Sun.





Robin



There you are... there you always are

proudly showing us you’re around

and even when you’re out of sight

we recognise your sweet unique sound.



Out of nowhere you suddenly appear

making eye-contact in that cheeky way

unmistakable with your orangey-red breast

asking “are there any tit-bits today?”



You will watch us dig and weed all day

as though we garden for you alone

conjuring up tasty worms and bugs

whilst surveying from your hedgerow throne.



Suddenly a warning Beep, Beep, Beep

comes from this tiny, little thing

and then with a burst of joyous song

so much pleasure the Robin can bring!



He will sing and trill his wondrous songs

always rejoicing with a most tuneful shout

that he is out there, embracing the world

and that life’s certainly worth singing about.



Our pace of life is often far too fast

but he can make me stop for a while

reminding me that life is for living

and how he always makes me smile!



So I wish to thank you, my little feathered friend

for your songs, that all day abound

for the gracious way in which you survive

and making me happy whenever you’re around.





Nature’s Splendour



As we rush through our own busy days

each of us keeping to our own little ways

we do not see, we haven’t the time

to stop and take heed, it’s surely a crime

not to look at the sights and hear the sounds

of nature’s scenery and music abound

it’s all there for mankind to enjoy

every woman, every man, every girl, every boy.



Nature’s splendour is waiting to be seen

beauty that goes beyond ones dreams

sunshine that glistens over meadows and flowers

sweet bird-song that serenade us for hours

summer, autumn, winter and spring

endless variety the seasons will bring

dynamically changing, day by day

transforming our world in a spectacular way.



The sun she sets over hills and dales

casting shadows and hues, she never fails

to prepare us all for the night yet to come

the day almost over, for some just begun.

The moon gleaming bright in the sky so dark

beneath shining stars, a fox will bark

as badgers and cats start their nightly prowl

to the haunting sound of a wise old owl.



Plants and animals numbered far beyond vast

will be here in the future as they have in the past

and to live and walk amongst such beauty

to honour and protect it, is our duty.

We are all free to relish with awe

this wondrous gift given to us all

so embrace what Mother Earth has to give

but with her, in harmony, we all must live.



Jan Clifford

I loved hearing Lucy English's poem on Unsprung. I thought I'd send in one I'd written based on an autumn walk in our wildlife garden.



WOODLAND WALK



Beneath the mellow tree boughs, I wade through

Fallen leaves. They crunch, crisp, like paper bags.

Red, gold, brown- this year's last colour blazes.

Thickets blossom with their hoard of berries.



Fieldfare flocks feast from fallen crab-apples.

Red-wings scatter out hawthorns as I near.

Lightning ribbons, squirrels whisk up an oak.

They tease me, peeping unexpectedly.



Like green hedgehogs, chestnuts nestle the ground.

Nearby, mushrooms thrust furled fists. A pipping.

Long-tailed tits arrow across the fiery sky.

Has night come on already? I turn back.



From the valley floor mist rises, ghostly.

Breathes cobwebs to glittering necklaces.

Come next morning, the first frost dusts rooftops,

Sure sign that winter is on its way.

I tried to post this sonnet a few days ago, but it seems to have vanished, so I'll have another go since it took me an entire day to write it. I'm pleased to see the BBC broadcasting poetry. Let's have some more of it!



A Gardener Reminisces.



A long-ago morning, bright but biting cold,

I forked a client's border. A sheen of frost

had silenced the robins, silvered the cobwebs and glossed

a gorgeous Norway Maple's veils of gold.

One by one she dropped her leaves and tossed

playfully some of the sparkliest at my head,

laid the rest around me as a bed

and unabashed lolled leafless, reticence lost,

so flagrant in her nakedness, so slim

and smooth that I, neglectful of my duty

stood rigid, gazing on her slender limbs.

But seldom may I savour days like these:

my boss, a man with no regard for beauty,

barked: "You don't get paid to gawp at trees!"

A Poem from my Terry Henwood.



AN AUTUMN NIGHT.



The autumn night is cold and clear.

A harvest moon casts soft veneer of light upon the land.

A town fox slinks from his warm den, to search the streets for contraband,courtesy of rubbish bins or kindly human hand.



A tawny owl in the churchyard swoops on silent wings,searching out a feast of tiny scuttling things.A mouse in leaves upon the the ground gives the game away the owl picks up the rustling sound and pounces on his prey, then soars up to the edge of town,where down below, upon the ground a badger slips beneath a fence,to find a banquet, left for him by friendly residents. And so the autumn night wears on until the dawn is breaking.

We hear the first soft tweet of birds, as slowly they awaken. Its their time now, and as the morning sun shines bright all the creatures of the night,quietly fade away, to sleep the autumn day.

Here's my contribution - I wrote this when I was 8 years old (I am now 49) and my mother and my teacher didn't believe I wrote it and composed it myself.(I did - honest!) Over the years I've written more poems and lyrics than I can remember but I remain proud of this one as the first proper poem I wrote which people liked.



Autumn Day.

The leaves fall down, the trees are bare,

They cover the ground, they litter the air.

Flowers are dead, birds are gone.

Winter rides a snow white horse

Over the bracken and the gorse.

I`ll do a poem for Autunmwatch, a programme that we love,

we learn about all animals, the Dormouse, Deer and Dove.

With Chris, and Kate, and Martin, but a lot of treats in store,

and then it comes to question time, it`s what we watch it for!

We saw the scottish wildcat, and we`ve also had a test,

we`ve seen the stags a-rutting, and gone poking through a nest.

Kate has swum with congers, and Chris there, on alert,

was bitten by a polecat - and I bet that really hurt!

We`ve even had some cookery, on bounty from the land,

why anyone would miss it, I could never understand,

so, thanks to all on Autumnwatch, keep doing what you do,

we love the rich diversity, the whole thing, through and through!

Hi, have loved reading everyone`s poems, hope anyone out there likes mine!

My husband and I love the programme, and try to watch every week. We think the presenters work so well together, and it seems like everyone has a good laugh, whilst genuinely caring for nature.

Great programme! I hope you enjoy this poem which is about one of my favourite birds and its place in our late Autumn landscape.





Serial Killer



The cold, dead hand of Winter

tightens in rigor on the dormant land,

while night deposits moon-frost

making whitely marbled roads

and grass blades crackle underfoot.



Puddled ruts along the flint track

shine with glass-floored hollows

as fiercely sharpened star-points

glint across the ever widening void.



The breathless, opaque silence

in the bare bones of the hanger -

home of winged and creeping,

running, leaping creatures -

accentuates the blood's rush

in the watcher's inner ear.



A screech across the valley

betraying a lone marauding owl

with craw as empty as her heart

makes her hibernating prey

curl tighter in their nests

while slowly, gently pulsing

to a dream of far-off Spring.



Another cry, that bounces bleakly

off the barren moonscape fields,

announces the approaching hunter

who, on silent and unmoving wing

surveys the Autumn-sculptured furrows

for any careless, unsuspecting thing.



A shadowy morse cast on the beech stems

spells imminent glide-borne death.

A flurry and a muffled squeak

As talons, whetted by the emptiness of Winter

strike the fatal blow upon the woodland floor.



The hoar-encrusted morning will reveal

a ball of fur and bone fresh shorn of meat,

sole testimony to the latest unseen kill

that sends the poacher homeward - now replete.





Brian Smith

Really liked the idea of poems on Unsprung. Here is a one of my efforts:-



The Rook



The mellow sun of autumn drives away the morning mists

The stag headed branches of the ancient trees make way for the parliament of autumn

The members assemble in their chosen order, carpeting the branches with their glistening purple sheen

There is no discord in this debate as the season has been good

The subtle conversation pass to & fro until as if by some secret sign or change of tone, the speaker calls time on their debate

All & sundry members burst forth in noisy exultation of their undivided nation

And if by chance you should be listening below and find their conversations beyond the wit of man, just stand in awe and reflect upon the enterprise of such a happy band!

An Autumn Poem:



A shift began as the first winds blew in

and played with debris of burnt orange and red,

And the abounding breath of Terra said:

"I am coming".



And the pattern of the skies changed

with dancing visitors from foreign lands,

And the blue-grey palette of the artist's hands said:

"I am coming".



And the night sky spoke more clearly

and the waxing moon and the turn of the Earth,

telling their tales of harvest and rebirth rejoicing said:

“I am coming”.



And the air grew thick with riches

and ancient stories of treasures and promise,

While the great mothers of the Earth whispered with their strong stillness:

“I am coming”.

A couple of haiku.



Feathers, blood on snow,

rock dove croons over bones, tracks

say weasel guilty.



Old pond, grey wind day.

Reeds spplaud duck pantomine,

Webbed Feet on Ice.

I'm afraid I haven't come up with an Autumn prose, but I have written one about two of the presenters...



Chris Packham (top man)

Is the geek in the van

But a bloomin' nice bloke

For all that -

He keeps two dogs (but no cat?)

A coat (but no hat) -

which he gets when he

strikes a wrong note



Encyclopaedically gifted

He can never be shifted

from Springwatch and Autumnwatch too

He's the King of the Swooners

The last of the Punk crooners

And the world's leading expert

on poo



Chris Packham's top bird

is the Goshawk - just recently preferred

For its size -

But of all the rare species

The one which most pleases -

All golden with glorious blue eyes -

Is Packham's most secretive, most chastising mate

The beauteous, bubbling red-legged Kate

Took us ages to come up with this one. Particularly moving I think!



The boy stood on the burning deck,

Wearing just a towel,

A bird flew down and pooped on him,

I think it was an Owl!

This comment was removed because the moderators found it broke the house rules. Explain.

Great Poem!

All the leaves that are whithering

turning golden brown,

conkers tumbling from the sky,

falling down,down.



As the conkers split their shells

a wondrous marvel to see,

all I can do is cast my mind,

to the games waiting for me.

Brilliant Poem Skylark!

Poem;



There was a show called Autumn Watch, for everyone to share,

With birds and bats, Mrs Bitey too and even a random hare.

They worked hard, day and night, to bring us news and views,

But when that Chris told a joke, oh the cries and boos!

With poo a plenty, and Chris’ sounds in the air, all we need do is sit back and stare.

So join me in raising your cup of tea, to thank the Autumn Watch team, from everyone and me.

My Second poem.



A FOREST AUTUMN DAY.

----------------------



The forest glade is quiet and still,

the dawn is yet to break.

A rustling in the undergrowth

means something is awake.

A door mouse feeding on the ground,

she`s building up her strength.

She`s made herself a cosy nest

to sleep the winter length,

while up above , a robin sings,

he`s always first to wake,

then very soon, the forest rings

as dawn begins to break,

with song birds calling loud and clear,

the beautiful dawn chorus,

magnificent and glorious,

for all the world to hear.

-

A gray squirrel leaps from tree to tree

among the golden canopy,

possessed with great agility,

then winds his way on down

to gather nuts on leafy ground.

He stops, alert, what was that sound.

A mighty roar of rage

echoes through the forest glade.

The red dear stags are at the rutting stage.

Their foreheads clash and antlers rattle,

as they engage in fearsome battle.

They fight for hours with their foes,

intent on winning all the does.

-

The battle`s done,it has been won.

The winner holds his head up high

and trumps his victory to the sky.

The loser, tail between his legs

quietly slinks away,

and peace reigns in the forest

on this clear autumn day.



Mrs T Henwood.

Thought I would post a poem in keeping with the recent unsprung show. Doing a great job guys.





Autumn Morning



Peace and quiet I sit and stare

And smell the morning’s crisp clean air

My senses draw in sight and sound

Take in the beauty all around

I taste the dampness in the air

And still I cannot break my stare

I watch as moisture settles as dew

And I think of you.



Time seems to stand and wait a while

Observing me with a smile

Causing the moment to linger long

Before determinedly moving on

Yet in that brief second, in that pause

As I reflect and consider cause

I think of you.



I try to make the feeling last

Not wanting the atmosphere to hurry past

Drawing strength for the coming day

Not knowing what might come my way

I purpose to set another date

A moment of time to sit and wait

A peaceful time to stop and be

And think of you as you think of me.





© Copyright 2003 Clive Maddison



www.clivemaddison.com/autumn-morning.html

I would be happy for the poem that I submitted [Autumn Morning] to be published in an Autumnwatch book if the proceeds went to support a nature charity. There are some great poems here and I think it is a great idea.



Clive Maddison [www.clivemaddison.com]

Some great poems - I agree with Clive Maddison that it WOULD be a great idea to get a book together for Autumnwatch. Re the "legal" issues that Martin mentioned on Unsprung 28.10.10 I am sure that the authors (and I am one of them) would agree to waive any rights if the proceeds were to help wildlife in some way.



Angela 62

This was inspired by another fabulous show [number four]



Autumnwatch, what a delight

I sometimes wish it was on every night

Lots of laughts, information galore

When you think it's finished, there's more



Unsprung follows at relentless pace

Squeezing everything in, against the clock they race

Charming chaos always reigns

Under watchful eye of Mr Hughes-Games



Chris Packham delivers knowledgeable fact

He loves his wildlife, it's no act

But if there's confusion while on air

We're awfully glad Kate Humble's there



Clive Maddison

[www.clivemaddison.com]

this is a poem my 10yr old daughter wrote whilst we were walking through the woods:



walking through the park



sqwelching, crunching through the trees,

sqelching, crunching on the leaves,

sqwelching, crunching feel the breeze,

walking through the park



hundreds of acorns under my feet,

scurrying squirrels gathering a treat,

hustling hedgehogs keeping neat,

walking through the park



flowing rivers bending round,

stay still and listen to the autumn sound,

see the animals hurrying to their hibernating mounds,

walking through the park



beautiful trees turning from green to orange to red,

lots of leaves falling on my head,

"hey thats my nut" the squirrel said,

walking through the park



trees like fireworks frozen in time,

i hoped you enjoyed my autumn rhyme



BY MEGAN WOOFF

The Fungi Hunt.

---------------



Deep in the forest where the fungi grow,

the mushroom season is in full flow.

We set off, basket in our hands,

to reap the fruits of this ripe land.

We see some ceps, wow, what a coup,

but only harvest just a few.

We must leave some to spread their spores

beneath the forest floor.

Now, what is this in those dark woods

white, and faintly glowing.

The cauliflower fungus beneath the pines is growing.

A feast indeed, and what a find

but as it`s rare, we must be kind

and only take a half.

Look here, besides us on the path

some fly agaric, so well known

as the famous fairy toadstool.

WE must leave that one well alone

as to eat it would be harmful.

Ah, now is this the chanterelle,

but true or false, we cannot tell.

We really need to be quite sure as the false are classified as poor.

We sadly leave that one behind,to see what others we can find.

Some sulphur tuft, although not good looks pretty on the rotting wood.

We carry on along the track,

OH, tiny ones, with pointed tips,

could this be the liberty cap ?

don't think we`re going on that trip.

Leave them behind, what else is good ?

Some parasols, there, in the wood.

We take a couple, leave the rest.

Their flavour is the very best.

Well, now i think we had our share,

we,ve had a lovely day.

We must`nt strip the forest bare,

so we`ll be on our way.





Mrs Terry Henwood.

Breakfast For The Birds.

------------------------





An early autumn morning and i`m cosy my bed,

but now the day is dawning and the birds are waiting to be fed.

First I hear the robin chip out his warning call.

I guess it is the white cat sitting on the garden wall,

hoping for a birdy snack,

but i`m pretty sure he`s lost the knack.

I think he`s getting old.

He shouldn't be out there in the cold.

Then the sparrows start their clamouring for seed I keep within a bin.

Just a few more minutes i think, with a sigh,then I hear a raucous cry.

I open up a bleary eye to see a flock of crows go by.

They want their wholemeal bread, digestive biscuits too.

Oh dear is that a pigeons now giving forth with their soft coo.

and now we have the herring gulls, the loudest of them all,

sitting on the chimney pots giving out their strident call.

Then I hear the wren start up with his cheerfull churring chatter,

and somewhere very near, the bluetits squeak and natter.

I suppose I`d better rouse myself and go and meet their needs,

with nuts and fat balls, bread and seeds,

for where would be the joy in life without the birds to feed.



Mrs Terry Henwood.



I would be happy for you to use any of my poems for a book as long as any money gained from it was used for wild life.

By William Buckner aged 12, a poem about Autumn.



AUTUMN

Autumn has it all frost,wind and rain,

all the colours darkness life and pain.



All the Hedgehogs and Squirrells hibernating

while all the Ducks and Geese are migrating.



The Autumn voices are lovely and calm

very tranquil,melow and full of charm



I can see trees,bugs,clouds and birds

I'm stopped,stund,speechless for words.



By william Buckner,aged 12. 03/11/2010

By William Buckner aged 12, a poem about Autumn, with spelling corrected.



AUTUMN

Autumn has it all frost,wind and rain,

all the colours darkness life and pain.



All the Hedgehogs and Squirrells hibernating

while all the Ducks and Geese are migrating.



The Autumn voices are lovely and calm

very tranquil,mellow and full of charm



I can see trees,bugs,clouds and birds

I'm stopped,stunned,speechless for words.



By william Buckner,aged 12. 03/11/2010

To all who might have read the poem I submitted yesterday " Breakfast For The Birds " the second line has a word missing.

It should have read ` and i`m cosy IN my bed `

----



Thanks, Mrs Terry Henwood.

There are some really great poems on this blog!

Lovely lovely poem. As someone has mentioned below, we were invited to enter poems that we'd written but like him I can't find a link but here it is anyway! I was inspired to write this sonnet by the thousands of pinkfoot geese we are so lucky to have overwintering here on the North Norfolk coast and at the moment feeding on a next door field which means they are flying mindblowingly low over our conservatory on take off! Fantastic experience!



Winter Geese



Autumn

I hear a sound

so wild and free

like the cry of a newborn child.

The door flung open

my soul takes off

and shares the exuberant joy

of the wild free spirits

who fly like gods

triumphantly on high.



And as evening falls, their ordered skeins

weave magic before our eyes.

A symphony of sound and sight

against the fiery skies.

Well, it's late autumn now. Certainly here in the North. As it turns colder, I thought I might share this poem I wrote in 2004 about the aurora. It was actually for a planetarium thing about light, but it's that time of year again. Oh, and it's got birds in it.



Aurora



Parting the veil, the curtain.

The green hissing nightscape

Wrapped its cloud-face

In the North.

In the North.



There were no clouds

And the light in Heaven was not the sun.

The shimmering lights turned like dancers,

Slow whirling Dervishes in the Northern sky.



Some peoples remember the dead

As they shake the fragile screen between the worlds.

I can see my brother’s fingers

Moving the shining cloth aside

Rising from his bed,

Bringing word from another place.

Night birds fly across his face.

Wild swans whoop and swoop

Until they are frozen with his murmured words

In the ice of time long past.



Too many eyes, too many angels,

Too many weaving pictures in the sky,

Have crossed our wasted nights on earth.

How many tears and inspirations

Have these energies wrought

In the hearts of humans in their backyards everywhere?



The solar wind blows clouds into our hearts.

It crackles in our radios

It reminds us of the sun going down.

It reminds us of ourselves.

Inspired,as always, by Autumn Watch and Unsprung I could not resist writng



Springtails.

Microscopic insects

Elastic, gymnastic,

Performing fluffy flickflacks

And aerial twirls -

The Beth Tweddles

Of the insect world.



and ... thanks to Chris for the title



Autumn Hits the Deck



Rain storm.

Autumn hits the deck.

A smouldering sheet of wet leaves

Slaps flat at the foot of the tree,

Beneath it an iridescence of insects.

Secure in their plated architecture,

Steel-clad millipedes

Feed on dead plants, and,

With spatulate feet, beetles

Pat dung balls into shape whilst

Industrious bugs poke

Through the undergrowth

Around the stag-headed oak.



Gaye Gerrard

THE AUTUMN WEATHER.

--------------------



The autumn weather is so diverse.

It gives the best, it gives the worst.

Now yesterday was bleak and gray

with intermittent drizzle,

and yet today, the forecast says,

the temperatures could sizzle,

and they were right,it is quite warm,

could end up with a thunderstorm.

and still this week, but later on,

they say the cold north winds will come

and snatch the gorgeous autumn leaves,

so make the most of these.



Yes , autumn gives us the whole lot,

i`ve known it cold, i`ve known it hot.

It gives us frost and even snow.

We get strong winds that fiercely blow,

we get days of torrential rain,

and even had a hurricane.

So celebrate the autumn days

that give us bright and cheery,

for dreaded winter`s on it`s way

and gives us cold and dreary.

CREATURES OF THE NIGHT.

-----------------------



October,and the night is clear.

A Full moon bathes the atmosphere,

and casts it`s beams of light

upon the creatures of the night.

The badgers, from their setts emerge,

then friends and family all converge,

and through the leafy woods they churn

toward the field, to dig for worms.

Some roe deer in the trees nearby,

watch them with a wary eye.

They startle very easily

and stand alert, prepared to flee.

Suddenly, they start, and run,

through the wood they bound,

for behind them from the thicket

comes an eerie and unearthly sound.

A vixen, lone and in her prime

is calling for a suitor.

She feels the pull of mating time,

and needs to make a future

by having cubs to nurse and wean,

and pass along her family genes.

Meanwhile, at the woodlands edge,

underneath a bushy hedge,

a tiny nose peeks from a hole

closely followed by a vole.

His whiskers twitch, his dark eyes peer,

He squeaks, and scurries back in fear,

for barn owl`s gliding across the field

looking to see what it could yield.

So, slowly night turns into day

and predator rests from seeking prey.

The prey greet daylight with relief

from dodging beaks and claws and teeth.

They`re just so happy to survive,

to greet the daybreak still alive.