At four minutes past four a lone blackbird on a chimneypot opposite my house starts his song, tentative but persistent. The sky is lightening, he tells the world. This is no time to stay unconscious. Because he speaks in blackbird language, I don’t really know the meaning of his telling, but only guess that his message is designed for other blackbirds of his species. Soon the valley rings with their song, just as it does in other valleys with the mysterious call of the cockbird of gallus gallus domesticus, whose plumage is so much grander than the blackbird’s. Part of my wonderment is to ask why. What mystery is contained in each form of nature? It’s locked in evolution’s narrative and the answer could be couched in scientific terms, just as a craftsman could tell you how he made a piece of furniture. There is a difference between the how and the why, just as there is a difference between science (biology, technology . . . ) and poetry, or every art which exists purely for the communication of joy.
In a primitive response, I too desire to stand on a chimneypot, master of all I survey, singing “in full-throated ease”, as Keats wrote of the nightingale. The poet recognises himself in the singing bird. Both are motivated by the joy of sharing with a fellow-soul. The scientist insists that there is a prosaic reason for the bird’s song, but that’s only because the scientist is employed to be prosaic (where prose is not so much the opposite of verse, but the medium of objectivity and acknowledgement of facts.)
As I write this, a little white van stops outside. Behind the computer screen is my window on the world, and from this north-facing study I can see first my backyard, then the children’s playground and behind that, the road, and beyond that the hill they call The Pastures. The outside world is backdrop to my very existence, ever-changing, beyond the capability of these fingers to capture in any form of words. On the side of the van it says “Verdant”—the name of a company contracted to the municipal authority for street-cleaning, grass-cutting, tree-surgery.
A man in a yellow reflective vest emerges purposefully for some errand, but I can’t see what it is: an acacia tree in full leaf stands between him and me. Sometimes they go round at dead of night to remove litter from the streets, especially on Friday nights where the working week’s end has been exuberantly celebrated. But now I see he’s a tree surgeon.
In the back of my mind, I remember the hair’s breadth between a poet and a bore. Keats and the nightingale both seek out a kindred soul receptive to their outpourings, but the blogger forces himself on no one. No other reason gets me up at four in the morning to tap these keys. If I were a blackbird, I’d stand on a chimneypot and hold forth. If I were a young man in need of a job, I’d apply to Verdant for the privilege of roaming deserted streets, making them fit for poets to stroll at noon. As it is, I write till it gets light and offer my little keyboard-dance.
a wayfarer’s notes 
The top photo was taken at 6am. Actually, using tripod I took two photos and spliced them together, as it wasn't possible to get both background and computer screen in focus at the same time.
At bottom left you can see the ownerless black cat sitting on the fence. She considers herself a freelance, largely depending on my neighbours for food and hospitality. When they go on vacation, they feel no responsibility for her, so she must arrange her own backups. As she can't pay her own veterinary bills, she has to let Nature heal her minor injuries, as a wild animal would.
To the left of the cat is my cherry tree, celebrating its second summer in my garden by growing fruit. Their green skins are starting to turn pink. Will they be fit to eat when they ripen, or shall they be left for the birds?
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dabbling in verses, are you?
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your england looks like my shillong. thank you for the photos. and it's a lovely light post.
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I must apologise for causing any possible understanding. My comparison of prose and poetry was metaphorical. I'm not too keen on verse, at least the modern kind.
I don't think this place has the beauty of Shillong. It's no tourist attraction!
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Postscript on Verdant: I think I know why the man came so early in the morning. He may have been surveying for a bit of tree surgery, for they are cutting branches off the acacia tree today. I'll post pictures.
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I wish I had the view you have when I sit at my keyboard. My home has just one room with a decent view. It is currently occupied by my Daughter.
Our housing complex has been invaded by workers who are engaged in re-paving the roads. The noise and traffic disruption have touched our whole neighborhood.
My wife went on a walk last night and noticed that a nice place we visited when my daughter was younger has changed quite a bit as of late. There was a rope swing there, and now there are 6 rope swings in the same space.
There soda and beer cans strewn about. Evidence of teenagers or older residents of the area. My wife picked up the debris.
Our complex is a densely populated one, surrounded by open space. Maximized use of the land that was open to developers. It places us in the middle of nature, and yet leaves us feeling crowded.
Vincent, I have been reading, but I have not had the time to respond.
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why no new post?
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Good question, no simple answer!
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Charles, it's important if you are living somewhere permanently to reconcile yourself with the immediate surroundings. To be at home somewhere physically, emotionally, spiritually, is vital. Since everywhere has faults and other people always threaten to invade our space in some way, making ourselves at home where we are is a kind of spiritual exercise!
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