Buzzard ChaseI look to see a raven trying to
fit into a buzzard’s suit. He swings
down like a parachutist into a cockpit.
But the buzzard is less welcoming
staying out of reach like a shadow
being chased by a child.
They fight for the space of the air
both believing they have a right
in the race of ticking egg growth.
Ty Newydd BlackbirdI watch him spring hop
just a touch off the earth. Silent
on landing so not to disturb.
The shut for the day daisies
offer nothing, buttercup petals
lemon squeeze to sleep
He moves from one patch to
the other. A secret assassin of
the immature grass.
The day is slowly nodding off,
but he keeps me awake
moving my pupils like pen nibs.
Crazy GolfIt was the one thing I looked forward
to. The putting of a ball that
bounced, bobbed, trickled or
popped off the concrete sides. A
windmill, shed, arch, white bunkers,
a wooden see-saw were all various
challenges that we had to face. At
first I never understood how hard to hit,
until I saw you just tapping away,
letting the ball do the work. We were one
back then, side by side as mother sat
on the wall listening to the waves.
Avenues led us astray, into trouble.
I learnt off you as we played, listening to your
wise words. Trying to save so much for when I
would need them years later. Now I play
the game with eyes open, knowing how to tap
my way through life.
Copyright © 2016 Gareth Culshaw
Gareth Culshaw is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen. He lives in Wales.