Before Six O’Clock - a poem by Sr Margaret Atkins

 Before Six O’Clock - a poem by Sr Margaret Atkins

 

Before six o’clock it is their kingdom, each

A singing centre, a lord of its own.

Humanity asleep is sidelined; I

Irrelevant, alert, alone,

In khaki slow-paced silence, fearing to break

Their dawnlight assurance of early May.

The blackbirds carol, from peak of every tree,

The song thrush chants his doubled lay.

 

                        The tiny avian king - troglodytes twice -

                        His song huge as his heart, bursts out

                        From a hedge. A roe-calf pauses to check my intent,

                        Then ambles on, sans care, sans doubt.

 

A chiffchaff is playing an ostinato, while

The cuckoo chimes his singsong clock

Each second all the hour. A hobby scythes.

A greenfinch trills. A sparrow-flock

Feeds chattering at ease. My reverent step

Unsettles just one heron into flight

Of awkward elegance. The lake’s surface

Shimmers serene as morning light.

 

                        The lake bears unexpected gifts: a bittern

                        Blows across his bottle-tops;

                        A tern, so close I glimpsed her black-tipped bill,

                        A flash of grace, she flips and drops.

 

An explosion of Cetti’s shakes the reeds. ‘Perhaps,’

It hints, ‘It’s time to return to base.’

The hour of magic is draining away, the world

 Of humans wakes. A change of pace.

 

                        En route, the breakfast-gang of rooks is rowdy.

                        (‘No parties,’ warned the B&B.)

                        It’s after six. The morning’s first alarm:

                        The blackbirds sense humanity.

 

‘Egrets and cabbage whites,’ declared the blurb.

Should I - who saw no butterfly -

Demand a refund? Absit! In this, their realm,

No quota, limits, price, apply.

 

                        In the dawnlight kingdom all is gift and praise,

                        Which from and to their Giver flow.

                        Could we the day-shift run as grace, not greed?

                        What magical hours might sing and grow?

with grateful thanks to Szabolcs Kókay for the illustrations (https://kokay.hu) and to Fen Drayton RSPB reserve.