Poetry From The Hide Poem by john (called jack) wren

A flotilla of frantic feathered fowl
Drop from the air, cheek by jowl,
Pink, pink, their cry carried through
Pink, pink, from out of the blue.

The morn mist in panic mode
Is exorcised from its abode
By a peregrine's steely gaze
Piercing across the watery maze.

Trees appear like ghostly hands
Spreading branch across the sands,
Their leaves shimmer and dance
Exploding in this great expanse.

Posts lean in a drunken sway
Along the margins of the bay,
As dying rail, drop their guard
To rot in the bay's graveyard.

The river winds lowly like a snake
Its banks ribbed, like icing on a cake,
Where mallards meet to happily court
Rock pipits, prance with their consort.

The oncoming tide creeps in
Slow, but sure, like aging skin,
And all in the hide are reconciled
To write their Poetry in the Wild

Grateful thanks to Jackie Galley
The Poet who wont dilly dally,
To hand out work in serious mode
Inside a brick or wooden abode.