Saturnine

I had the bird dream again. It never changes; the eternal corridor with the blinding light. I vary my direction but it’s always there. Hours pass, or maybe seconds. A silent world apart from my own haltering breath. Adrenaline surges. The quiet is crushed by wingbeats and the chatter of its cruel bill. I run from the cruel talons until my heart bursts and the light fades to black.

It waits for me there, always. Some nights I don’t sleep. It’s killing me.

Nature Rap

I’m special agent Tom and I’m a nature detective.
My flow is pretty weak but my words are effective.
I don’t have a badge.
I don’t have a gun.
But my bat detector is set to stun.

I’m a naturalist, not a naturist.
I keep my trousers on when I’m looking at tits.
The great and the blue.
The crested and coal.
All my homies need is a nesting hole.

Trails in the grass and tracks in the dirt.
I crawled through the brambles, tore a hole in my shirt.
Trapped on barbed wire.
Fox shit on my shoes.
It’s started to rain, I’ve got the badger sett blues.

A skylark in a country park.
A scratch mark on some tree bark.
Sunrise on the equinox.
Making friends with a city fox.

Grab your field guides and join my collective.
I’m special agent Tom and I’m a nature detective.

I’m a nature lover, not a nature fighter.
Don’t be jealous of my A3 weatherwriter.
Don’t envy my hand lens.
Don’t diss my chest waders.
Save your rage for knotweed and the alien invaders.

I travel around in an old Citroen van.
Full of bottle traps and my beat up trailcam.
The idols I worship,
Are Rose and Rackham.
I was raised on Attenborough and schooled by Packham.

Winter hits and I’m trapped in the office.
Dreaming of hedgerows and the hazel coppice.
I’ve still got the fieldfare.
I’ve still got the redwing.
But I’m counting down the days until I hear the first cuckoo sing.

A bullhead on a riverbed.
A barn owl in a farm shed.
Barbastelle in a woodland dell.
A brown smear and a strange smell.

Grab your field guides and join my collective.
I’m special agent Tom and I’m a nature detective.

I hang around at night in weird locations.
I swear I’m not a pervert, it’s my eco-occupation.

Grab your field guides and join my collective.
I’m special agent Tom and I’m a nature detective.

Strawberry Milk

The date was set months ago. He agreed in haste, unconsciously sowing a tiny seed of anxiety in his fertile mind. A hometown show by his favourite band, surrounded by his closest friends. Measured by any metric this was something to look forward to.

Four weeks to go. He was still excited, but the tiny seed had sent out green shoots of worry. He barely noticed, save for an occasional prickle at the edge of his consciousness. He thought about the club, an oppressive concrete box with low ceilings. It would be busy. Hot. Sweaty. Claustrophobic. He could still have fun though. Maybe.

One week to go. He was driving, listening to songs that reminded him of past times and places, words triggering vivid recollections of youth. Tunes first encountered when he was in his prime, if indeed those years could be described as such. It was a strange time, filled with academia, loneliness and a crippling lack of self esteem. He had largely expunged it from his memory, but he’d held on to the music. Always the music.

It’s the day of the gig. The anxiety seed is now full-grown, a complicated vine of creeping dread infiltrating every fibre of him. He’s at work, and whilst his body and mind are busy with the challenges of his job he can keep the unhelpful thoughts at bay. Work is his safe place, a sanctuary where his confidence in his own ability is unshakable. Within those office walls he is invulnerable, but the dread vine waits patiently outside. As soon as he steps out the doors it strikes, triffid-like, and panic sets in. “You’re the worst. It’ll be too busy. It’ll be too hot. You’ll look stupid. You’ve got nothing to wear. You’re going to embarrass yourself you fat fuck”. He doesn’t want to go anymore. He’s not going to go.

He is going to go. It’s two hours before the show and he sits waiting for a taxi. He feels uncomfortable in his ill-fitting clothes, and he’s started to sweat. Scared.

He meets his friends for a drink before the show, and the anxiety melts away slightly. He knows his brain is playing tricks, he knows he’s just the same as everyone else, but his mind won’t let him believe it. Alcohol gives the panic a fuzzy edge that seems less intimidating, and he relaxes slightly. They walk to the venue, and the cool breeze soothes his sweaty brow.

A short queue. Ticket scanned. A quick search from a security guard and he’s in. The wave of sticky heat hits him immediately, just as he predicted. The unique ambience of thousands of human forms temporarily entombed in a windowless bunker, perspiration condensing and dripping from the ceiling. Visions of wartime, but with a funkier bassline. He inhales a plastic cup of beer, then heads to the merch stand to waste some money. The endorphin boost is disappointingly brief, but it’s good to feel something. He buys another cigarette lighter. He doesn’t even smoke.

The venue fills, becoming packed like the metaphorical sardine tin. He takes up his regular position at the back, near to the sound desk. You always get the best sound near the desk. He struggles to find a position where he’s not constantly in contact with the writhing mass of other people, and gives up. The sweat comes again. He feels like a bear in a cheap man suit, and he convinced himself that people see him as some sort of landmark. “Meet you by the man-bear”. The lights dim and the band comes on. They start with an old song. His favourite. Adrenaline pumps, and he moves his right leg in an awkward near-dance, like someone trying to dislodge an amorous ferret from their trouser leg. He soon gives up and heads to the bar.

The bar. Thirty minutes spent in a seething ball of life, during which he sweats out enough liquid to fill Gas Street Basin. He emerges with a small cup of warm beer, which is immediately knocked from his hand by a man with a face that appears to have been drawn onto a deflating balloon. Fuck this.

He rejoins the crowd. Strobe lights flicker, framing the singer in a slow-motion sepia world. The crowd are mesmerised, but all our hero can focus on are those around him. The gig-talkers, the portrait-filmers, the pissed-up dancers windmilling their arms with gay abandon. An idiot in front crouches down, ingesting his MDMA somewhat less subtly than he thinks, before exploding back to a standing position and sending a young girl sprawling to the floor. The idiot doesn’t notice, and starts to windmill with renewed vigour.

His nerves are on edge, and all he can think about is how much he hates everyone around him. He imagines telling them to stop, imagines getting involved in an awkward fight under the strobe lights, all missed punches and kicks. He never wins his imagined fights, and he knows he’d never be brave enough to do it anyway.

A mid-gig lull. The band are playing new songs. The sound is muffled, and they seem to be coasting. Something is missing, some spark of danger and excitement. Before he knows it he’s heading for the exit, pushing his way through two sets of doors and out into the open. The cold air shocks him, a bolt of adrenaline runs through him as he realises that he’s free. He can still hear the band plodding through a disappointing album track as he skirts around the railings, ignoring the bootleg t-shirt sellers as he makes his escape. He doesn’t have a plan, but with every step away from the club the anxiety melts away. He walks the wrong way down the main road into town, away from the buses and taxis that could carry him home. At least a mile passes before he stops to collect his thoughts. He calls a cab, and heads into a nearby corner shop to buy a pint of strawberry milk. It’s been a bizarre evening by even his own strange standards, but sometimes the anxious thoughts win, and sometimes things don’t always go according to plan. That’s alright though, he doesn’t mind.

He sits back in the taxi seat, strawberry milk in hand, feeling calm. Until next time.

Renewal

Spring changes everything.

The viscous fog that held me bound is melting away. I’ll soon be free, born again into the realm of the May Queen. She walks the wild places, making everything new. Untold shades of green are a canvass for wildflowers of every hue, each a rare gemstone shining light into the dark corners. The spring flowers are the pioneers, harbingers of impending summer.

The air is different. The thin, biting wind of winter has been replaced by something new, a zephyr dense with pollen and scent, imbued with warmth. Close your eyes, let your other senses assume control. Breath it in. Taste it. Stand still and listen to the sound the spring breeze carries to your discerning ear. Birdsong. Nature’s great chorus, performing cantatas of endless variety for you alone.

Foremost among the May Queen’s haunts are the woodlands. I know she’s been as soon as I skip over the shallow brook and step past the hazel threshold. I’m not religious, but at times the divide between nature and faith seems paper-thin. The woodland in spring is my place of worship, my cathedral. The mighty boles of ash and oak are its great stone pillars, the crown-shy canopy its vaulted ceiling. Each glade is a quiet chapel, and each shaft of sunlight permeating that leafy ceiling shapes a dappled glow more beautiful than any stained glass lancet. The fallen log is my pew, a place for quiet reflection. I consider the elegant mosaic that stretches before me. Bluebell, anemone and archangel, a carpet woven by the seraphim.

The winter malaise is banished for another year. I step out of the woods renewed, more alert than ever to the world around me. I am part of nature, and it is part of me.

Spring changes everything. Blue skies bring joy.