Thursday, 5 March 2015

Songs that pull the strings of your heart

The days are so much longer now. On a sunny day you notice it most. No longer coming home in the dark. In the morning it is so lovely to be waking up to bright sunlight easing its way through the shutters and throwing the sunbeams into sharp relief. The temperature rose to around 20 degrees c today and my thick jacket seems ready to go into hiding until the chill of the Autumn evenings beckon it out. I might keep it close for awhile in case it gets cold again.
 One year we went away to Tuscany for Easter with are lighter clothes and the weather was freezing. We watched our son horse-riding from the warmth of the car, heater and radio on to keep up our spirits.
Every day now my ears are acutely aware of the sound of the birds. It's a sound that tugs at my heart strings. It's a sound that fills me with emotion. Images flash before me quite randomly. I go back in time- I'm studying in my bedroom, I'm taking my children to the park, I'm sitting with my mother, I'm waiting for my turn at the doctors, I'm cooking the evening meal and I relish the present as I hear once again the sound of children playing and the joyful sound of the birds. Thousands of memories and all those moments were filled with hope, because of the birdsong.
You can start looking out for nests in the hedgerows and banks and trying to identify the birds by the different notes they sing. One of the best songsters is the Song Thrush and is familiar to us everywhere. the plumage is brown above and buffish white beneath with very dark brown spots on the breast. She lays her eggs between February and July , usually four or five of a beautiful bright turquoise blue spotted with black.
The song is loud clear and full, and sounds a bit like 'did he do it, did he do it, Judy did ' and 'Come out, come out'.

Here is my poem for the day by Norman Gale about the song Thrush.

A Creed

How sweet the hedge that hides
a cunning nest,
And curtains of a patient
bright-eyed thrush,
With five small world's beneath
her mottled breast!

Though life is growing nearer
day by day,
Each globe she loves, as yet
is mute, and still
Her bosom's beauty slowly
wears away.

At last the thin blue veils are
backward furled,
Existence wakes and pipes
into a bird
As infant music bursts
into the world.

And now the mother thrush
is proud and gay
She has her cottage and
her pretty young
To feed and lull when western
skies turn grey.

The song thrush and her lovely turquoise egg

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