Moorhen

The little girls had a hideout among the nettles, behind the old dump;
choice site for unearthing old kettles, handle-less teapots and pans
which would end up propped on the half-submerged Elm trunk
rotting away in the pond.
A fine look-out as well for retreat from pirates and adults.
The moorhens regarded this as their hideout too!

They would scurry around like a flotilla of dinky craft on patrol
In the shade of the subsiding wreck,
with its lush nooks and abundant insect inhabitants,
in and out of the drooping fronds of Elder,
through the duckweed and scummy pond moss,
along the bank spiked with yellow iris and marsh marigold.

They were ferociously territorial when they had chicks
and unphased by little girls armed with saucepan lids.
They knew how to keep them at bay
with a clatter and flurry of feathers, feinting fierce advances
accompanied by much gabble and splash.
I have also witnessed them chase off ducks
even attacking their nests and breaking the eggs within.

Perhaps scraps, fallen cake crumbs and due respect
facilitated co-existence between the on-log and off-log dwellers!
The parent birds with baby blobs of fluff bobbing behind
would fish for minnows, frogspawn and larvae,
or snap up damselflies and water-boatman
skidding on the surface.

The cattle squelching in the ponds edge, knee deep in sedge and rush
were no danger;
but farm cats, those stalking jaguars, creeping along the willow boughs
and the roving birds of prey were -
Along with the perils of fox, stoat and owl by night.

Mid-way on the scale between eating and being eaten
these punky little birds epitomize spirit and gumption.

My early imprintings, so close-up and personal
from that kingdom on the log
amounts to more than clinical observations:
they watched us as much as we, them
which makes for a bond more than mere memory.