black magic

I have always had a penchant for black cats. Hattie, Betty, Monkey son of Minky ....I have lost track of all their names but here is Nancy

Below is the jackdaw who I haven't named - not wanting to insult a wild bird by giving it a name it didn't like or wasn't even appropriate. After all I called the Peking bantam Geoffrey after my dad and now I see she is a hen and didn't come to her name anyway. The magpie from two years ago I just called Mrs Magpie to find out later when she met a mate she was actually Mr Magpie.
 

So jackdaw is known affectionately as Jackdaw. And oddly does come if I call his name. If I hear him summoning me from the trees I call out and he comes flying down to rest on my head or shoulder. Once he painfully tried to land on my nose.

So I suppose it's no surprise that walking around with a jackdaw on my shoulder followed by a black cat has given rise to the belief I may in fact be a witch. I think it  would be fun to be a witch and I might well be a good one - I seem to remember I was top at spelling in school. All I can say is double, double toil and trouble fire burn and cauldron bubble. And on the wind Ghost Pocket's voice says my friend Shakespeare said that in Macbeth. Still having a raven too can't have helped.

But here he/she is now surveying the world from the top of the pink tower as the other day I opened the door to let her/him out into the world where he/she belongs. I hope they make it - there is a raven community near by and if they are a she she'll have more of a chance of being accepted. At least she stopped imprinting on me which I can't say Jackdaw has.

And here are Geoffrey and Barbara who go everywhere together as if joined at the wing. I'm not sure yet if Geoffrey thinks she's a duck or Barbara thinks he's a hen. The other ducks (who seem to be all male apart from one) sort of ignore them and although they all share the same duck house it's as if Barbara and Geoffrey are on the sofa bed whilst the others sprawl out on a kingsize.  And Oh dear I have just returned from a poultry auction that I only went to for a laugh and came back with these two sisters. At least it swells out the female contingency. It'll be interesting when they start laying eggs how many there are. I'm still hoping the ones with the curly tails(indicating male) have just discovered hairdressing tongs. Also Rocket who came to the auction with me was very well behaved and didn't bid for anything behind my back though he did tell me he was interested in a couple of  lemon cuckoo frizzle pekins that he thought would be fun to chase.

This is Rocket's Sunday morning face when just once in a while I return to bed with a cup of coffee and the Saturday papers. He likes the lifestyle section and looks out for nice jackets or a less embarrassing collar.

Obviously he never goes upstairs but here he is looking suitably anxious to tell me that Ghost Pocket is now on the bed and what should he do?

Ghost Pocket who can re-appear anywhere and at any time then poked his head out from behind the curtain. Life is nothing more than a tale told by an idiot he said rolling onto his back. You've been talking to Shakespeare again I query - that comes from Macbeth. He looks smug - yes we go back a long way. And here is my advice - It is not death that a man should fear but he should fear never beginning to live. That's Marcus Aurelius's advice I tell him, you've been hanging out with him as well? Yes and he made a collection of philosophical thoughts and reflections as he sought clarity, resilience and patience while ruling Rome's mighty Empire.

For once I was struck dumb. Are you for real Pocket? I cackle. He stretches out on the carpet, examines his paws and before disappearing though the wall informs me

that the life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living. So you're just a memory I ask and you are obviously chums with Cicero now aren't you? You told me this before though I'm sure you know I could hardly forget you. And as far as I could remember with a flick of his tail he was gone.

Nancy who had been watching all this and really didn't want to remember Pocket at all asked if next time he appeared would I ask him if he knew any good spells.

Since Pocket left this world - (and as Chief Seattle - who Pocket is probably on best buddy terms with- would say There is no death just a changing of worlds)  there is a mouse living in the house. Nancy is too infirmed to chase it and clearly it's beneath the Ghost Pocket to even bother even though it was more than likely him that brought it in in the first place. I mean I like mice - when I was a child I had a quantity of fancy mice that I kept in my Animal Hotel down in the old chicken house along with a couple of hamsters, some snails and a goldfish. Our mother who seemed to be terrified of mice was not told when my older sister first acquired a trio of mice and kept them in her bedroom. One day when she was in a particular impudent mood she popped them into her beehive(this was the hairstyle of the 1960's before Marge Simpson and Amy Winehouse)) and walked into our mother's bedroom  where she was feeling a little under the weather. Her face changed from one of a smiling greeting to one of horror as my sister's hair started to move around on her head and the three mice popped up over the top of the 'beehive'.

Anyway I don't really want this mouse in the house and Rocket tends to avoid it probably thinking it's just another animal I've encouraged to come in.

I found a poem I'd written about a witch so thought it appropriate to put it here.

Hex

They referred to her as a witch

and she did have a black cat

herbs hanging from the ceiling

a broom for sweeping leaves

propped up by the fire.

I wondered if there was no  cat

they'd still call her that?

Witch, witch cast a spell

the mushroom cheeked boys would chant

as they knocked on her door and ran away

Turn Johnboy into a toad.

She greeted us with a smile

until she saw what

we held in our arms

and laid gently by the hearth.

Linda Coggin

ghost pocket

 As Autumn approaches I have the raven, a crow and two jackdaws in my shade tunnel waiting to be released. Below is a pic of raven watching crow fly. Now I can hardly tell them apart.

Ravens are very slow at growing and I've been told by several raven experts I will have to care for it till it's at least a year and a half. Raven releases are rarely successful apparently as other ravens are predatory.

The good news is that since it's palled up with the crow it no longer comes near me. Whereas before it would willingly jump on my head and loved to be stroked it now keeps well away which is a good thing. A raven who is going to be released must not have imprinted on a human. The crow is doing a good job and I know now that when the time comes they must be released together.

This little chap however has decided it enjoys my company. I don't know why after all the jackdaws I've raised and released none of them think that home is sitting on my arm or shoulder or head but this one does. I have twice let it go and twice after a day or two I've heard it calling from the trees and when it sees me (and admittedly after I've said hello to it) its flown down and landed on my arm, then my shoulder and snuggled up by my neck clearly wanting to go 'home', where it proclaimed it was both thirsty and hungry and what had taken me so long.

So the black and the white runner ducks we hatched from the poor deceased lady ducks killed by the fox have grown into beauties - the black one is female. The two brown ones in the picture on the left which I bought from someone were also female but there they are in the picture on the right no longer brown runner ducks (mallards we suspect)and not female either! As the last sole duckling we hatched from the twelve black Indian runner eggs was white - also turns out to be male too no doubt we'll not be getting many eggs. You may well be considering that recently I've had little luck with runner ducks I only hope the female isn't too harrassed by the boys.

The tiny Peking bantam chick is growing though - she may be female - but yet too small for them both to meet the other flock. I hope they get on. When I introduced the other jackdaw into the shade tunnel the raven actually growled at it and I feared for its safety but they all seemed to have worked out how to co-exist for the time being. When it heard the growling my little jackdaw jumped on my lap and hid in my cardigan though previously had been accepted as part of the corvid clan. All is calm now though.

Nancy tells me that the Ghost Pocket has been haunting her. I don't actually believe that Ghost Pocket has been eating all her food which she assures me he has but Nancy is old now and if making up stories makes her feel better than so be it. As she has miawtzheimers or Feline Cognitive Dysfunction Syndrome her yowling has got more insistent and loud - I'm not sure she's still telling us the end of the world is nigh. More than likely she has tourettes.

He doesn't even come in through the cat flap she moans I think he's coming in through the walls. 

Her complaint reminded me of a cat I once had called Arkwright. He was handed to me as a tiny kitten by a woman who knocked on the door in London and asked if he was mine. He was a black and white bruiser of a kitten with no mum. At the time I visited my sister who had a smart and elegant Siamese cat who had just given birth to six ladylike looking  kittens destined for finishing school. Arkwright muscled his way in and started feeding from the mother who miraculously accepted him as one of her own even when he grew twice the size of her precious brood and looked nothing like them.When he was older we put a cat flap in the door but he invited all the neighbouring cats into the house as well so I invested in a magnetic collar that would only let him in through the flap. Trouble was being magnetic he had a tendency to getting stuck to the fridge door and once trotted past with my dress making pins attached to his collar. I wrote a poem about it which if you persevere is at the end of this post.

The Ghost Pocket appeared on the stairs again. Are you suffering from Takotsubo Syndrome? He asked washing behind an ear. What's that ? I queried. 

Broken heart syndrome. He replied. The heart muscles change shape and weaken triggered by the loss of a loved one. He rolled over onto his back. Like me he added.

And the days are not full enough and the nights are not full enough and life slips by like a field mouse not shaking the grass. 

Ezra Pound said that I told him. 

He smirked I know we've had a long chat about field mice. He told me he was once considered one of the most influential and most difficult poets of the 20th century. He paused. His contribution to Modernist poetry are enormous.  

My you are mingling with interesting people I acknowledge. 

Yes and I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near Tannhauser Gate.All these moments will be lost in time like tears in the rain. Time to die. 

Oh I already have he added. 

Really? I question him. Are you sure you didn't just slip into the Odeon and watch Blade Runner? I think you'll find Rutger Hauer said that.

  I think you'll find that I've just met him. Interesting fella. So was Shakespeare.  

The Ghost Pocket flicked his tail and did exactly as Nancy predicted. He disappeared into the wall.

Animal Magnetism

You seem to have a fatal, metal attraction

drawn inextricably to any iron contraction

an ally of alloy.

Now with your magnetic key

dancing from your collar

you are no longer

the cat who goes forth alone.

I see you clinging like a shadow

to the bucket in the garden

or making overtures to the mower

as you plot a course North.

Not a cat to grace a lap

I saw you in hot pursuit of a toe cap

on a pair of Doc Martens.

I might have found you, your head clamped

to the Art Deco lamp in the hall

or in a clinch

with a crampon in the shed

until recently when you formed an embrace-

ment

with Mrs Lacy's hip replacement

and bonded with the handcuffs

you found under her bed.

Linda Coggin

mewsings from the grave

 

RIP the wise, clever and loving Pocket whose heart after 13 years finally gave up.

I'm glad he chose to go when he felt he was ready - when I asked the vet when he wanted to see us again and the vet replied six months I knew he knew Pocket would not last that long.

Being a quarter Bengal he was a feisty boy and extremely opinionated. Often feared both inside and outside the home. I think the news has spread as I've seen several baby rabbits in very close proximity to the house seemingly without a care in the world.

I can't remember him ever being a kitten but looking through old photos of him he was and at what stage he started to rule the roost we have no idea. In spite of blinding Rocket in one eye when Rocket was thirteen (unlucky for some) weeks old Pocket adored him and loved to snuggle up to him as closely as possible much to Rocket's discomfort.  He also loved to follow us when we went on a walk, with Rocket glancing nervously over his shoulder as we went. He will be much missed and no more so than on the pages of this blog. Or so I thought .....

So life leaves and new life appears. Only one of the black Indian runner eggs hatched and guess what? It was white! I felt so sorry for it on its own that I went to Jim the duck man and he gave me a two day old Peking bantam chick that I'm calling Geoffrey because for some reason it reminds me of my father.

It was a good move and they have become feathery pals. A week on and the duckling has almost doubled in size but Geoffrey remains tiny and is like a little bumblebee as he buzzes around their box eventually snuggling up to the duckling who may well, in his eyes, be his new mum.  

I might have to call the duckling Barbara after my own mum. He is only the size of a cotton wool ball and I think is actually crossed with a bumblebee as yesterday he flapped his miniscule wings and flew out of the box onto the table. Any of the remaining animals would have snapped him up in a moment but fortunately Raven is not in the house and Rocket and Nancy were asleep. The trouble is the duckling is so large now it needed a bigger box and I was much obliged to the man in B&M  who gave me an enormous cardboard box from out the back which had cuddly soft toys printed on the outside which seemed appropriate. The inside must seem like a large landscape to Geoffrey and he can run quite a distance now before flapping his wings and perhaps taking off again like something from Top Gun.

Raven is slowly growing in the shade tunnel along with a cheeky jackdaw who likes to jump on my head when it sees me. Raven disapproves of this so has started jumping on my head too. I think I will have to wear a hat. Raven - like Rocket - has  a particular penchant for cheese.

I didn't believe in ghosts until I saw Rocket tear down the stairs with a worried look on his face as if he was being pursued by some apex predator. When I glanced up the stairs I saw the apex predator was - the Ghost Pocket.

All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity he said as he scratched the stair carpet and looked at his forepaws to see if they were clean. Shakespeare said that I couldn't resist telling him in spite of my shock - in Hamlet I added. I know he replied I've been chatting with him - interesting fellow, been dead a long time. 

What are you doing here? I asked the Ghost Pocket who looked just the same only a little smaller. The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living he purred. That's Cicero I said - have you met him too? He ignored me and washed an ear. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it ....he stretches out - like me he added with what looked like a smirk on his face.

You must have done a lot of chatting with Shakespeare - he wrote that in Macbeth I also couldn't resist informing him.

The Ghost Pocket stared at me. A bit of advice to you before you too die - live the life you've imagined. 

I was about to ask what Henry Thoreau was really like and tentatively went to stroke him but my hand went through the air and there was noone there.

For I will consider my cat Jeoffry

Christopher Smart 1763.

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.

For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him

For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in

his way.

For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with

elegant quickness.

for then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God

upon his prayer.

For he rolls upon prank to work it in.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider

himself.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

for first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.

For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.

For thirdly he works it upon to stretch with the forepaws extended.

for fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.

for fifthly he washes himself.

For sixthly he rolls upon wash.

For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon

the beat.

For eightly he rubs himself against a post.

For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.

For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

raven haven

         

It seems as  if my last post was a self fulfilling prophecy. Having gone on about ravens and writing desks look what turned up a few days later.

This young raven had apparently come out of its nest a tadge too early and became caught up in the storms. She was found soaked to the skin, cold and nearly dying. Once warmed up and fed she was given to me to continue her recovery.

 

She is completely charming - already the size of a rook and still considered a baby. Eventually I'll move her into my shade tunnel where she can learn to fly and then I must take advice into what happens next. Apparently ravens who are used to humans do not fare well in the wild. If she's a female she has more chance but unless we do a DNA testing I don't know. I've decided she is a female and although I don't usually name the rescue birds (apart from Mrs Magpie) I am tentatively calling her Nimue - who was Merlin's daughter and muse. Also known as the Lady of the Lake -  there is something magical about her.

I know about Nimue because many moons ago I played her in an eight hour production of Morte D'Arthur at the Lyric. Originally trained as a mime the spoken word was relatively new to me and on the first day of rehearsals I managed to completely embarrass myself.  I had to stand up on top of a make shift tower and proclaim to the director, the cast and the crew that "It was not Sir Patrice who empoisoned the apple - it was Sir Pinel!"

All eyes were on me as I nervously and loudly declared that it was not Sir Patrice who empoisoned the apple but - and then out of my mouth I shouted it was Sir PENIS!

There was a shocked silence.

Another attempt at incubating black Indian runner ducks  - another fifteen days to go.

Pocket is still quizzing me on not writing at the moment. Writing is easy he says all you have to do is cross out the wrong words. Mark Twain said that I told him but he tucked himself up on the stair in order I suspect to trip me up. How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live he murmurs on. Henry Thoreau I said and actually I'm not sitting down to write. He shuts his eyes. don't tell me the moon is shining. show me the glint of light on broken glass. Anton Chekov penned those words I announce. Have you actually read any of my books? I ask. I have he replied and you shouldn't be writing in the voice of a cat or a dog when you are not a cat or a dog. You'll be cancelled.

Nancy has become Mrs Rochester in the attic. I think she has alzheimers too as she wanders around wailing loudly. She eats well and likes a cuddle and is also very very old. She likes to stay upstairs and proclaim.

Rocket said he'd given me lots of ideas to write about and I should pen another The Dog, Ray. You can call it the Dog, Rocket he tells me and do not, please write The Raven, Nimue. I will bear it in mind.

oh the sweet peas this year are magnificent

A poem I wrote a while ago but it's the only one with ravens in it so I put it here.

The Rapture

(the transporting of believers to heaven at the second coming of Christ)

An angel stood high on a ladder by the street corner.

He looked perplexed, re-arranging his wings

as if trying to keep warm.

He carried a placard.

"The end of the world is nigh"

it read

On Tuesday he told anyone who asked.

On Tuesday the end of the world did not come.

there was no interplay of complex natural forces.

No Satanic army, tsunami or Armageddon

only a rain filled sky and a wind -

a vortex, that blew stronger than usual

from the East.

And yet it was the end for the badger

who lay, his face squashed into a grin

by the side of the road.

The end for the hummingbird hawkmoth

blown into the screen of an oncoming car.

For the man on the rails at Godalming

causing trains to be subject to delay.

When the Heavens turned black

it was merely the beating wings

of ravens

who flew overhead.

Waiting for the souls of the righteous.

the Raptors - not the Rapture.

why is a raven like a writing desk

 Guess what? On the 29th day look what hatched.

And a little later there were two.

A second generation of the dear ducks killed by a fox in the last episode.

I think they may both be boys - female ducklings quack and male ducklings squeak. There's a lot of squeaking going on.

At the same time they hatched I was given these two baby jackdaws. They, unlike the ducks need to be hand fed every few hours. I remember with the famous Mrs Magpie I took her to Cambridge for a Patti Smith concert and had to leave in the interval to feed her in the car.

Pocket is annoyed he has no access to these little forces of nature and that I even take them in in the first place. You're a mumpsimus he tells me. A stubborn person who keeps making a known mistake. I have to agree with him. Also you only give me a tittynope of food in the mornings. It's amazing what I have to put up with. My stomach wambles at the very thought of it.

Where are you getting these fancy words from I ask - The Oxford Dictionary? As a man sees so a man is he mutters as he pandiculates across the carpet. William Blake said that I told him but he ignores me and turns into  cockney cat. Strike a light guv  he says.

Along with the magpies came a box of jackdaws whose nest had been blown down from the tree. There was talk of a raven who couldn't walk properly but then apparently it walked properly before whoever had found it could pick it up. The raven is the Irish Wolfhound of birds. And I suspect might have devoured one of the fledgling jackdaws if put in the same pace. I have looked after one before and they are bigger than Nancy our black cat.

I've no idea how birds have played such a large part of my life. I wrote a one woman play once before I started looking after corvids about a woman who turned into a bird. A sort of Lilith character. Lilith was Adam's first wife who grew wings and flew away when Adam wanted her to be subservient. Of course she was turned into a she-devil as a result.

the garden is a mass of different varieties of roses this year.

Lilith

The new feathers fitted

uncomfortably around her body

suppressing the natural curves

of her breasts, thighs and buttocks.

Instead of her juicy lips which before

had planted sighs and kisses

on delighted cheeks

she had - a beak.

Her feet, which had danced 

to the beat of time

were constricted into

sharp, tight claws

but her eyes - 

dark, bright, shining

and reliant

still saw - 

everything.

She watched soft,compliant Eve

smoothing Adam's bed

she eyed the apple

tempting for that pie

that Eve was so good at making.

She decided not to stick around

to see what happened to those boys

she had men to visit

in their dreams.

Linda Coggin

in vitro

Last month a fox broke into the duck house and killed all the five ducks including the rare and wonderful Mr Walters with his Easter bonnet.

 As is often the way with foxes it just killed them and actually didn't take any away to feed the youngsters which I thought was a shame. I blame myself as the duck house door didn't shut properly  so easy to get into. I haven't had a duck killed by a fox for eons unlike the ones killed by my neighbour's dog. There's not much space in the garden for burying five ducks, gone are the days of singing Kumbaya around the grave of a guinea pig. So I buried them in the hedgerows. No ashes to ashes.

Subsequently I put the five eggs I'd collected a few days previously and put them in an incubator. For 28 days I religiously turned the eggs many times in a day as the mother duck would have done so the embryos don't stick to the inside shell. I occasionally clucked at them. But the word clucking unless you are a hen means disapproval so perhaps that is why they decided not to hatch. I mean who wants to be disapproved of after being trapped inside an egg for twenty eight days? However the 28 days passed and as I'd suspected nothing hatched as I'm pretty sure they had not been fertilised. I'd never seen any frantic activity between the two males and their harem. 

Many years ago I bought six white Indian runner duck eggs off e bay and that is how Mr Walters came into the world. He was a one off. So now I've ordered half a dozen black runner eggs again from e bay and so begin the twenty eight days of nurturing.

Billie has been in our life for a year now. I can hardly believe how small and adorable she was and how this was before she learnt the joy of stealing mobile phones, digging up the garden and chewing all the cushions. I must try clucking at her.

So it's birds, birds, birds. This is the time of year for them to fall out of their nests and find their way to my sanctuary. Corvids. The crows, the rooks, the jackdaws, magpies but hardly ever a raven. At the moment I have two young rooks who still need to be hand fed and two (see below) who can feed themselves but are learning to fly before I open the door to the shade tunnel and let them go on their merry way. They have not yet packed their suitcases.

Rocket said he'd stay in his egg for twenty eight days but not to bother turning him. He'd like some light refreshment.

As I'm not writing much at the moment - (Writer's Block? )Pocket says he has a theory on writer's block. Writer's Block is neurotic inhibitions of productivity  he said. I think Edmund Bergler the Austrian psychiatrist  said that I told him. Well your writer's block is just an excuse he scoffed. You have flagging motivation. So easy to make excuses - just listen to yourself. So I looked at my excuses and thought he may have been right.

I didn't write yesterday

 because a swarm of bees

stole all my words 

and gave them to the Queen.

I didn't write yesterday 

because I couldn't find my pen

the magpie had stolen it.

I didn't write yesterday

 because there were not enough hours 

in the day.

Because I had nothing in my head

and nothing to say.

I didn't write yesterday

because I couldn't be bothered.

Pocket told me I should just take up accountancy instead.

Ashes

The incoming waves bring

the ashes onto the beach.

Brian was scattered here last week

but part of him still rests

in the rock pools

 with the hermit crabs

and the plastic bottles

and the child's shoe.

Most people aren't aware of Brian

after all a week is a long time

in the life of a wave.

By now some of Brian

is under a coconut tree

in the Seychelles,

is swimming with dolphins

in the Channel Isles.

He'd always wanted to travel.

On one beach part of him 

is in a sandcastle,

on another in a sandwich

and smeared around the lips

of a small boy.

Which once he was.

Linda Coggin.

PS perhaps Pocket has a point.

magpie message

 

For anyone who may be new to this blog I will briefly explain that a few years ago I hand reared a baby magpie chick who although lived outside used to tap on the window every morning to come in and would sashay across the table and either sit on my laptop or steal a pen and fly away. If I called out Mrs Magpie she would fly down from some tree and land on my shoulder, peck my ear and tell me off about something. Sometimes in the morning I'd find her roosting on top of the cupboard in the kitchen having spent the night there. Then over a year ago now she found a mate and I realised Mrs Magpie was infact Mr Magpie. They'd meet every evening in the apple tree at six thirty in the evening and sit on a branch next to each other. If she was late he'd fly onto the roof of the house and call out for her. Eventually they flew off together and I didn't see them again.

Then - last week as I was talking on the phone in the front garden there came a call from the cherry tree and there was Mr Magpie. He chatted for a long time, no doubt telling me about the handsome family he'd produced though he hadn't brought them round to show me. Then he flew to the poly tunnel where he'd been raised when learning to fly  with me in hot pursuit. Of course after over a year he would hardly fly to my shoulder but he continued squawking and then flew off over the fields.

 I haven't seen him again and probably won't but I loved that he had heard my voice in the front garden and came to tell me that all was ok and he was still alive.

Billie who was not alive when he hung out at the house thought a bee was much more interesting and I doubt she'd have been so generous sharing a room with magpie when he/she was young and had to be kept warm inside. The magpie not Billie. Neither of the cats or Scout the old wolfie we had then or Rocket minded and sometimes the bird and Pocket would be next to each other on the table. I daresay Pocket was wary of him/her though of course would never admit to it.

Rocket told me that Pocket had started speaking in strange tongues and he'd had to cover his ears up as it was so annoying.

We hvae to udnretsnad taht  nboody is cmonig to svae us from oruslvees said Pocket as he wafted past. I asked him what on earth he was talking about. Typoglycemia he muttered the brain can still understand words even when internal letters are jumbled up as long as the first and last letter remain in their correct position. But that's words written down I say - not spoken - it doesn't make sense spoken and what are you saying?

We have to understand that nobody is coming to save us from ourselves - and you don't expect me to be writing and reading as well as everything else do you?

Carl Sagan said that I told him but he merely pursed his lips and said do you mean Cral Sgaan?

Pocket has also taken to following us on our walks which makes Billie so excited she leaps up and down and turns into a spinning top. It is rather annoying but I love that Pocket wants to do whatever we are doing. I told him I might take up sky diving but he ignored it.

View from the kitchen window

Magpie

I am the magpie from your cherry tree

I'm surprised you don't recognoise me

I know I've been gone a year

but now I bow down to you in greeting.

If you don't believe me I'll show you

my nest built from your pens

which I stole 

also your letter from the DVLA

and the wedding ring you threw on the floor.

One for sorrow they say

what existential nonsense

but let me tell you

I have a mate now

and two truly is for joy.

Linda Coggin April 2025