Photographic poetry

Garden birds singing happily, but I can’t see them.0G3A6319

Caged birds screeching in the background to the hum of traffic and the wind rustling the leaves on the trees.

As I watch for birds in the garden, the curtains brush against the wall.

The tv in my sons room is irritating.

A noisy jet sweeps across the sky hoovering up the dark clouds , releasing much needed rain onto the ground below.

In the distance, the tall trees in my neighbours garden wave to me.

Wood pigeons fly from roof to roof.

As the wind picks up and the rain saturates the yellow leaves, they float to the ground.

My hands reach to my camera in anticipation, the lens leans out of the window.

Quiet.

Roses bend over, kissing the lawn in the breeze.

Berries are beginning to form and apples are ready to drop.

A blue tit drops in and pecks at the feeder.0G3A6164

The blue tit retreats quickly to the safety of the trees as

a lone wood pigeon surveys the garden for danger.0G3A6118

A blue tit flits in amongst the branches of the trees and hedgerows

Soon a score of blue tits raid the feeders  as if the message “food” has been transmitted through the washing lines.

The garden comes alive.

The blue tits gorge on the peanuts, encouraging others to feed.

”It’s safe,”they say.

Goldfinch, great tit, starling and robin gather to feast and

a collared dove clears up the mess they create.

Then, as if the bell sounds in the playground to signify the end of the lunch break, they disappear.

 

 

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