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Lords of Flight

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...
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Hedge Hammocks

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.
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On Crawley Hill

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.
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Mexican Wave

I watched some of the opening match in the FIFA World Cup last night.  This morning, the last time I'll eat breakfast looking at the lake outside our cabin, the wind reminded me of the roar of the crowd.   Mexican Wave Watching the wind Chase a Mexican wave Along the whippy trees Round the lake, Listening to its roar As it rushes from behind,  Building through the woods With nowhere to go But to bluster on  Along the bank, Roaring its approval At its great escape. Wrapping myself tight  As the temperature drops Before the next shower, The companiable warmth  Of my breakfast coffee mug  Bids me to stay here, watching,  For just a little longer. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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Bravado

I arrived at the campsite shop 45 minutes early so decided to wait by the (mercifully empty) children's playground.  It's surrounded by trees and I was delighted to be serenaded by a wren while I waited.  Such a loud and melodic song for a tiny bird.  Bravado It's not your size that matters It's the lust in your song, Your need to make it clear who you are,  And if they didn't grasp it the first time To repeat it over and over until they say: Listen to the bravado of that wren!  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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This time of year

I came across this poem prompt posted by @rogerrobinsononline: Write a poem with one repeated line appearing five times.  Each time the line returns, the surrounding context must alter its meaning through irony, tenderness or revelation. What a clever idea.  I really love this time of year, When days stretch out, spilling into evenings, Flowers unfurl shy hearts to probing bees, Smiles banish the blues, welcome in the green. I really love this time of year With its promise of heat building day by day, Its lush sunlit valleys busy making hay, While birds flit from feeders to nest, and back again. Oh yes, I really love this time of year The daily battle against rampaging weeds, The constant on-and-off of 'just in case' layers,  The sudden sodden surprise of a shower. I really love this time of year When plans for celebrating an anniversary Narrow down from a multitude of possibilities To the perfect expression of all we have made together. I really love this time of year As...
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The Betrayal of Everyday Things

I've been taking a rest after the madness that is April and Napowrimo. I was beginning to think I'd exhausted my ability to think in poetical terms,  and then I came across Pat Schneider's excellent poem The Patience of Ordinary Things.  It's one that struck a chord the first time I came across it - such a simple but unique way of looking at everyday objects - and I love it more each time I revisit.  Here is my rather dark homage to Schneider's poem - I feel I should apologise as it's almost a betrayal of its generous sentiment.  The Betrayal of Everyday Things It is a sign of ageing, is it not? How blister packs proliferate after each doctor's visit, How they make themselves at home on the breakfast table, How chairs suck you into their embrace, How the floor is no longer a space to play on, But a thing to be kept at leg's length, How the soles of shoes are chosen for their grip. I've been thinking about the betrayal Of everyday things.  How toes Ha...
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