Winter is gone

The path I walked this morning was strewn with small branches bearing sprays of gum flowers, strewn by honey drunk lorikeets. The flowers still had a rich honey scent.

The birds shriek even louder now and the crows chuckle and cawl, marking their territories. A noisy friar flew over with a twig in its beak for a nest in our jacaranda. I was swooped by a butcher bird in the usual place.

When I sit on the stoep in the morning, the shrill birds’ calls are almost annoying, but their joy overrides the irritation.

The wattle mimosa is almost over, now the bauhinias are flowering, to be followed by jacaranda and eventually flamboyant Poinciana.

On our walk I have seen two dead snakes, so they are on the prowl too.

Winter is gone.

This poem always reminds me of the circle of life, mostly grim but the idea of a crows’ nest embellished with ‘gowden’ hair is almost amusing. It is not by Robbie Burns; its origin is unknown.

Twa Corbies

As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’

‘In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een.
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.

‘Mony a ane for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whare he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’