I wrote this poem about swifts some years back, inspired by a talk about the colony that return each year to nests in the tower of Oxford’s Natural History Museum. David Lack’s book ‘Swifts In A Tower’ documents the history of the observation of this colony over several decades. Swifts are in serious decline in Britain, for all the valiant efforts of those who install specialised nest boxes and fight to protect traditional nesting sites. The title - and opening of the poem reflect the Latin scientific name for the common swift - apus apus.

Apus

A push from the lofty cradle

And the fledgling forked-tail

Is on its way. Airborne, tumbling,

Swerving, concise scythe-shaped

Wings drive the sleek brown sprite

Over rooftops and spires, round

Blocks and towers. Gape-devoured,

Insects become flight fuel.

Non-stop, non-alighting, Africa-bound,

There is no settling phase, no look

Of leisure. Are they models for our

Racing spirits, these swifts?

During, or shortly after, walks in the hills, words come through that capture the essence of the trip. I wrote this piece after a memorable walk into a lonely bothy and a remote Munro in the north of Scotland. My daughter and I shared a couple of great days, including meeting a trio of the best bothy men you’d ever encounter. It’s a trip we’ll never forget, with the bothy fire the backdrop to laughter and singing, and even discussion of Greek philosophy…

Forms of Theories

Down we head along

The track of life, pacing

Up the sinuous strath:

Oykel Bridge left behind,

Seana Bhràigh far ahead;

A steady pace, steady drips

Of rain have us in ourselves.

We think in our silo.

Turning bends, tangents

Of sensing contact with

Sense-making conclusions

About the point of it all,

When, mounting a rise, the

Full sight of pointy ridge

Gives visual clarity.

We cross fords in all ways.

Inside Coiremor

Distillation of thoughts

Was midwifed well by the

Distilled gold, which gave a

Tantalising shimmer

Of perfected thinking

In those gilded wee hours:

Yes, serendipitous.

Chasing many thoughts,

As flames sent chasing shapes

Around the bothy cave,

Somehow our meanders turned

To talk of the Wrestler:

We wrestled gently with

Forms of theories about

The Theory of Forms.

In autumn 2021 I spent many hours exploring Bagley Wood, a part-managed area of woodland on the southern edge of Oxford. But I didn’t entirely neglect another patch of land which harbours more wildlife than most realise. Standing still and silent by a gate that leads onto the meadow, I was eventually rewarded with this close encounter with a cheeky looking weasel.

There is a corner

Turning point and nook,

Where willow thrives

And hawthorn blooms,

Though not in this

Soft autumn phase.

An unfamed place,

It beats no chest,

Cons not its worth,

Even to me, who

Stands awhile and

Greets the sprites:

Goldcrests, wrens,

Three brands of tit –

All here to feast -

Who only pause

From forage mode

When sharp eyes

Spot black and white,

And tiny mouths

Alarm-scream ‘magpie!’.

Uninvolved,

I stay stock still,

Watch it all,

Take in everything.

But then - so close -

I’m on the stage,

Actor not watcher.

The drop and rustle

Is the give-away.

I sense a rat -

The river so close -

And turn to see

Expected grey

And whiskered face.

Our keen eyes meet,

Through the nettles:

A pristine weasel,

Sweet sight to me,

If not to prey.

Mid-chestnut fur

Matches the season,

Cream chest patch

Catches my eye.

Slight. Lean. Mean.

My gate-vigil is

Gilded, adorned and

Exclamation marked.

But how do I know

That even a comma

Lurks in weasel’s mind,

That I’m remembered?

Did both see a gaze

Of wondered unthreat?

I come here often,

Should come more,

Because, again,

With time to linger,

A play unfolded:

Plots and sub-plots

Uniquely seen.

Yes, there is a corner

Of this local field

That is forever mine -

You’ll find yours too,

With place and time.