Pumpkin
a hollowed out,
rictus grin
placed prominently
at this liminal time
a curious crossroads
of old and new
with but a cursory nod
to the peaceful host
frail shelter
from this Samhain storm
a rail of russet leaves
and borne
the broken limbs
of oak
and scorned
a single flame,
faltering.
©Andrew James Murray
Found in Judea, this is the oldest representation (11,000 years old) of a human couple making love.
Knew you’d like it.
With some of the sights that I saw today, I thought Manchester was surpassing itself. But then my wife pointed out that The Rocky Horror Show was in town.
I had so much that I intended to do today, but in the midst of such busyness and bluster, as Kahlil Gibran put it:
I meant to do my work today but,a brown bird sang in the apple tree..
Chuck Berry is bringing out his first album in 38 years.
There’s hope for The Beatles yet.
Kittiwakes Kittiwakes on iron girders, man-made cliff edges to which they return to breed away from the tumult of the North Sea, settling upon this industrial, rusting enclave, still singing of the waves at two in the morning. ©Andrew James Murray
In honour of Dylan’s recently bestowed honour, I thought I’d repost this from the summer just passed.
I’m behind with my Springwatch. So much so that it is now summer. I watched one of the episodes I recorded yesterday, and learned an amazing fact about the nightingale.
This bird, in an attempt to woo a female mate, chooses around 600 notes, and then combines them into about 250 phrases. From these it produces its song, and every time it sings, its song is different every single time.
Think about that: from the combination and variants open to them, every time these birds sing, they never repeat the same song. Each time they come up with something original.
The latest research seems to indicate that females select males on the quality of his song, because the nightingales that sing the best are the best providers of food for chicks. Ready to pull, they clear their throat and give it there all.
Never worked for me on Karaoke night.
Each year…
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The new Nobel Prize winner.
I’ve got all of his books.
It is that time of year again,
when the still-dark morning
calls me outside,
the sky softly tinged blue
and a flirting breeze,
the heraldic song of the blackbird
lightening the shadows.
City Jackdaw 