Most weekends, starting in the spring
Until late summer, I spend angling.
Not for fish. I find that far too tame
But for birds, a much more interesting game.
A juicy worm I use as bait
Cast a line into the tree and wait.
Seldom for long (that’s half the fun)
A commotion in the leaves, the job’s half done.
Pull hard, jerk home the hook
Then reel him in. Let’s have a look…
A tiny thing, a fledgling, young enough to spare.
I show mercy. Unhook, and toss it to the air.
It flies nestwards and disappears among the leaves
(What man roasts and braises, he too reprieves).
What next? A magpie. Note the splendid tail.
I wring its neck. Though stringy, it’ll pass for quail.
Unlike water, the depths of trees are high
So, standing back, I cast into the sky.
And ledger there beyond the topmost bough,
Until threshing down, like a black cape, screams a crow!
Evil creature! A witch in feathered form.
I try to net the dark, encircling storm.
It caws for help. Its cronies gather round
They curse and swoop. I hold my ground.
An infernal mass, a black, horrific army
I’ll not succumb to Satan’s origami.
I reach into my coat, I’ve come prepared,
Bring out my pocket scarecrow – Watch out bird!
It’s cross-shaped, the sign the godless fear
In a thunderflap of wings they disappear.
Except of course, that one, ungainly kite
Broken now, and quickly losing height.
I haul it in, and with a single blow
Dispatch it to that Aviary below.
The ebb and flow: magpie, thrush, nightingale and crow.
The wood darkens. Time to go.
I pack away the food I’ve caught
And thankful for a good day’s sport
Amble home. The forest fisherman.
And I’ll return as soon as I can
To bird. For I’m a birderer. The birderman.