Cuckoo land

In cuckoo land, I
like the cuckoo
a gypsy transient
intransigent singer in June
across the blue hills
a song so ancient
and full of the echoes
of eons of months of May
waxing towards the solstice time
bluebells and violets shriveling
as the dog-rose and honeysuckle unfurl.
And daily I hear the call
insistent, persistent
from the Oak-grove over the brook;
the sound rises in the mists of dawn
and across the lamb-littered meadows
softening in the dusk
evoking shivers up my spine
so delicious
so paradoxical
- knowing the rascal character of the bird.


There are at least three around my home;
I heard them simultaneously
from different quarters
stinging my poetry awake
despite some poor bird
unknowingly bereft
struggling to feed these fat squatters
parasiting remorselessly, ravenously
bulging, huge and alien
while their feckless natural parents
skedaddle Africa-wards.

But my heart still swells and quivers
the prana zinging and zithering
along every meridian
like champagne
all my senses prickling
sozzled with illogical joy.

9/06/07