BATCHING
Posted: Wed Oct 03, 2012 12:40 pm
Batching
Peeping from’ neath their velvet cloaks, black gimlet eyes appeared
and painted faces slow emerged it seems they were not feared
by the intrusion to their place of man who walked erect,
they hung suspended from the trees branches as we expect.
Beneath, the ivy clad stone walls gave out the heat of day
that no doubt kept them somewhat warm – most wished they’d fly away
for fruit bats are malodorous and messy little blighters
who venture forth as dusk creeps in like tiny black stealth fighters.
A snapping crackling sound was heard from the roaring log fire.
The burble hiss as water roiled a thirst now would inspire.
Above a moon sailed gallantly over the dark ridged clouds
and somewhere, soft a boobook called far from the maddening crowds.
The mass of velvet moved and surged upon its night time roost
as if a single entity some maiden would seduce
and little squeaks and clucks emerged with sometimes a slight flutter
as soft wings whispered in a syncopated velvet stutter.
The long man was not once perturbed – his shadow came and went.
He rolled his swag out by the fire, he’d no need of a tent
the night was calm and balmy and this bloke knew the bush well.
There was no ring around the moon – and of rain not a smell.
Peeping from under velvet cloaks, black gimlet eyes appeared.
Small furry faces slow emerged and at the man they peered.
But all was calm and all was right – they settled ‘neath moonlight
also the man, beside the fire he’d banked down for the night.
Maureen Clifford © 10/12
Peeping from’ neath their velvet cloaks, black gimlet eyes appeared
and painted faces slow emerged it seems they were not feared
by the intrusion to their place of man who walked erect,
they hung suspended from the trees branches as we expect.
Beneath, the ivy clad stone walls gave out the heat of day
that no doubt kept them somewhat warm – most wished they’d fly away
for fruit bats are malodorous and messy little blighters
who venture forth as dusk creeps in like tiny black stealth fighters.
A snapping crackling sound was heard from the roaring log fire.
The burble hiss as water roiled a thirst now would inspire.
Above a moon sailed gallantly over the dark ridged clouds
and somewhere, soft a boobook called far from the maddening crowds.
The mass of velvet moved and surged upon its night time roost
as if a single entity some maiden would seduce
and little squeaks and clucks emerged with sometimes a slight flutter
as soft wings whispered in a syncopated velvet stutter.
The long man was not once perturbed – his shadow came and went.
He rolled his swag out by the fire, he’d no need of a tent
the night was calm and balmy and this bloke knew the bush well.
There was no ring around the moon – and of rain not a smell.
Peeping from under velvet cloaks, black gimlet eyes appeared.
Small furry faces slow emerged and at the man they peered.
But all was calm and all was right – they settled ‘neath moonlight
also the man, beside the fire he’d banked down for the night.
Maureen Clifford © 10/12