Nature's Ways Read online

Nature's Ways

  12 Poems about Nature

   

   

  Paul Whybrow

   

   

  Copyright 2014 Paul Whybrow

   

   

  Published by Paul Whybrow

  (Originally written and published under the pen-name

  Augustus Devilheart)

   

   

  Cover Art: John4352 at FreeDigitalPhotos

  Nature's Ways

  12 Poems about Nature

   

   

  License Notes

   

   

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

  please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

  not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and

  purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

  of this author.

  Nature's Ways

  12 Poems about Nature

   

   

  Disclaimer

   

   

  This book is a work of fiction. While some of the place names are real, characters are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Nature's Ways

  12 Poems about Nature

   

  'I would rather live in a world where my life is surrounded

  by mystery than live in a world so small that my mind

  could comprehend it.'

   

  Harry Emerson Fosdick

   

  Contents

   

  The Poems

   

  A Cluster of Wrens

   

  Women and Cats

   

  Book Dots

   

  Talon & Beak

   

  In The Graveyard At Dawn

   

  Tampa Town Bear

   

  Perch Is Good

   

  The Old Skylark

   

  The Old Road

   

  Onion Skins

   

  Kissing Gate

   

  Hold On

  The End

  About The Author

  Also by Paul Whybrow

  Novellas

  Short Stories

  Song Lyrics

  Poetry

  Novels 

  Connect with the author

  Nature's Ways

  12 Poems about Nature

   

  Paul Whybrow

  A Cluster of Wrens

   

  Troglodytes,Troglodytes,Troglodytes.

  A forager of the gloaming,

  cascades crisp crescendos

  through chinks of brightness.

   

  A whirr of pure energy,

  pert and purposeful,

  whoever coined you

  knew your true worth.

   

  Thimble fledglings hum

  dew off tiny leaves.

  Mother Jenny scolds,

  stilletoing flies.

   

  Stubbed tail,

  hen-brown barred,

  a frenzy of wings,

  a heart that thrums.

   

  Summer-cupped

  in a wool-lined nest.

  Winter nights ensconced,

  a box-ball of wrens.

   

  Women and Cats

   

  All cats are grey by night.

  Some women prowl.

  Some cats walk by themselves.

  All women have claws.

   

  All cats screech at the moon.

  Some women howl and moan.

  Some cats purr and drool.

  All women are planets.

   

  All cats have servants.

  Some women have slaves.

  Some cats hunt wildly.

  All women forage alone.

   

  All cats love dusk.

  Some women glow.

  Some cats taste fear.

  All women know mystery.

   

  All cats are gods.

  Some women are lonely.

  Some cats are loyal.

  All women are tidal.

   

   

  Book-Dots

   

  An avowed bookworm,

  nose long-buried between pages,

  I've sometimes spied little creatures

  scooting across the paper.

  Tiny insects seeking their next fix

  of paper-pulp, binding-glue or leather.

   

  It's said the odour of decaying books

  is both toxic and an aphrodisiac.

  Surely no surprise to book-lovers,

  for who can resist the heady mustiness of

  a used book-store or library reserve store?

  If this scent were bottled, some would wear it.

   

  Bibliophile insects are all well and good,

  but cockroaches eat anything, including paper.

  So it shouldn't have been a surprise that

  they infiltrated the boxes of books

  stored in the basement of the library

  where I processed stock for a new branch.

   

  Sitting at night, cataloguing books,

  it was eerie to hear thousands of roaches

  sifting their way through volumes nearby.

  A sussuration of legs and carapaces

  staining paper with stinking brown juice.

  Half of the books had to be scrapped.

   

  A happier insect book-dweller

  I named the 'book-dots'.

  Tiny domes of black shellac,

  the size of a full-stop,

  they shared my reading

  in a Cornish cottage.

   

  So miniature and sociable

  I wondered at their existence,

  as they glided between the safe

  mildew haven of a paperback

  and pooled sunlight on sill slate

  I envied their freedom.