Everyday Poetry

We watched the aerial battles of two kites and the buzzards last week when the fields opposite our house were cut for hay.  The elegance of all the birds was a wonderful sight to see, but the beauty and tactical manoeuvrings of the kites won our hearts, and temporary possession of the field.   Lords of Flight The dips and folds of the corduroy slopes Draw in two kites, swooping and swirling,  Circling with the wind-ruffling breeze,  Effortlessly readjusting flightpaths To shadow prey amongst the drying hay.  As they dip and fold into the valley Bronze undercarriages flash red against clear blue skies,  Over the yellow ochre of close-cropped grass; Spitfires against Heinkels, they heckle three buzzards Until the fields are theirs alone.  Where do they come from; from how far away? How do they know tractors have exposed their prey? All we know is the dip and fold of russet and white,  The elegant presence of these lords of flight.  © Copyr...

I've started going on a daily walk - just down the lane to the woods and back again.  On my latest trip the spiders had been busy.  Hedge Hammocks Unseen, the busy weavers String their traps from branch to branch;  Their hammocks hang horizontal,  Luring trusting insects in To rest their weary wings In dipping beds of gossamer.   They slip in deep,  To roll up fast, in wakeless sleep.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I'm reading a history of poetry that my son bought me for Christmas, and this morning I reached the war poets.  I was struck by the shape of one in particular: in Flanders Fields. It is a rondeau, and I decided I'd try to write one.  The rules of a rondeau are: 3 stanzas, with the rhyme scheme AABBA AABc AABBAc. The opening words of the first line form the refrain at 'c'.  In retrospect I should have chosen easier rhymes! On Crawley Hill the valley spreads Beyond the gardens' floral beds, Across the fields of shivering grass, To where the sheep create new paths, Following where their leader treads. The birds that soar high overhead For us pure beauty, cause great dread: Prey hides until all dangers pass, On Crawley Hill. The green wood's paths stretch out ahead, Hidden leafy ways a precious thread Our own short lives will long outlast. I watch it all, through window glass, On Crawley Hill.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.