POEMS – Tim O'Hare

What If? So what? #poem

Sometimes I find that I cannot move forwards
to follow the path that I want to take.
The gears whirr noisily inside my head,
and The Controller shouts
“STOP. What If?”,
“STOP, What If?”,
again and again,
at the top of his voice.

Racked by doubt and paralysed by fear, I
find that I have lost my will
to continue, and so I grind to a halt – frustrated, cross,
until stillness descends, and I remember that
however wide or deep the chasm, I can build a bridge
that even only spanning imagination, offers a moment when
a step can be taken. Then, slowly, I
can make progress once more, to come
closer to where I want to go. And I and am able to
scream at the top of my voice: “So What? To hell with it.”

WHAT IF? SO WHAT?: This poem came quickly. I was writing in my morning journal about how I had not found any time for poetry writing for several months, and starting to wonder whether perhaps this might be an indication that my well of inspiration had run dry. At the same time, I was thinking about the value of just putting my poems ‘out there’ without any expectation that they might ‘land’. Suddenly, I found that I was writing again, and this poem emerged. I wasn’t sure what to give it as a title but settled on What If? So What? based on a phrase that I vaguely remember hearing the singer Tom Jones use in an interview years ago – something along the lines that “we must always try to turn ‘what ifs?’ into ‘so whats?’”. Don’t miss the hidden message in the second verse…!

Blue #poem

What is blue
and is whatever it is the same for me as it is for you?
A scientist might state that blue describes:

‘colours perceived by humans observing light with a dominant wavelength between approximately four-hundred-and-fifty and four-hundred-and-ninety-five nanometres‘,

which may well tell us how blue can arise –
in the human mind,
when a certain type of electromagnetic radiation enters the eyes.
But this does not, I think, tell us what blue really is.
For how can we be sure
that the imagined colour that my mind selects,
in its constant rush to paint upon its ever-changing canvas,
comes from the same small pan
into which you dipped your brush?

You can say that blue is the colour of the sky
(by day at least),
or of the vast expanse of open sea
(mostly),
or the shirt worn by the best team
(certainly not).
But what if you see all of those as I see green?
(Well then we would agree – those shirts belong to by far the greatest team the world has ever seen).

So what is blue
to me, or to you?

To complicate matters further…
‘blue’ could refer not to colour but, rather,
to the tone of my thoughts.
But if I tell you that just now the thoughts inside my head are blue,
how do you know
whether I am simply feeling a little down on my luck,
or whether my mind, unleashed,
is filled with images of a naked couple…?
Again, we come unstuck.

We must agree then, I think, to put aside all ambiguities,
and to take the definition, with all of its nanometres, at face value.
Then we can label the sky as blue and the sea as blue,
we can assume my mood is melancholy
even if it is really full of sauce,
and we can move on
(although, we will never agree about those shirts of course).

(c) Tim O’Hare, September 2023

BLUE: I’m not entirely sure where the idea for this poem came from but I guess I just liked playing with the words and the rhymes and bringing together some threads from different aspects of my life – science, perception, atmosphere, ocean, sports.

A revised version of this poem was published in Issue 16 (March 2024, ‘Colour’) of Consilience – an online Science Communication/Poetry journal. I’ve repeated it below for completeness…

What is blue
and is whatever it is the same for me as it is for you?

A scientist might state that blue describes:
‘colours perceived by a human when observing light having a primary wavelength in the range four-hundred-and-fifty to four-hundred-and-ninety-five nanometres’,
which may well tell us how blue can arise –
in the human mind,
when a certain type of electromagnetic radiation enters the eyes –
but does not, I think, tell us what blue really is.
For how can we be sure
that the imagined colour that my mind selects in its constant rush
to paint upon its ever-changing canvas
comes from the same small pan into which you dipped your own brush?

You can say that blue is the colour of the sky (by day at least)
or of the vast expanse of open sea (mostly)
or the shirt worn by the best team (certainly not).
But what if you see all of those as I see green?
(And then we agree those shirts belong to by far the greatest team the world has ever seen).

So what is blue
to me or to you?

To complicate matters further…
Blue could refer not to the colour of a sight but, rather,
to the tone of my thoughts.
But if I tell you that, just now, the thoughts inside my head are blue,
how do you know whether I am simply feeling a little down on my luck
or whether my mind, unleashed, is filled with a tumble of racy thoughts?
Again, we come unstuck.

We must agree then, I think, to put aside the ambiguities
and to take the scientist’s definition, with all of its nanometres, at face value.
Then we can label the sky as blue and the sea as blue;
we can assume my mood is melancholy even it is really full of sauce;
and we can move on
(although, we will never agree about those shirts of course).

(c) Tim O’Hare, March 2024

Square Peg #poem

I am the square peg in the round hole:
jammed in,
stuck fast,
placed by youthful naivety,
forced down by the weight of expectation,
held in place by the pressure of life’s demands,
and hammered home
by the repeated blows of round pegs that,
although appearing far too large
to fill such a seemingly trivial space,
are really too small to even touch the sides.

Yet, even in the tightest grip
it is possible to wriggle and writhe –
tiny movements that, though causing damage, breaks, and pain,
gradually,
imperceptibly,
ease the bind.
The needle must break the cloth to form the stitches of repair.

I am still the square peg,
plugging the round hole,
missing parts of my surface,
diminished,
and wearing hidden scars,
but now I have worked my way loose.
And though I cannot know the planes and slopes
of the land that lies outside,
I have seen it in glimpses,
and I am ready to slide out,
with freshly rounded corners,
ready to roll.

SQUARE PEG: This is another poem that came up on me out of nowhere and very fast. In some ways it is a direct continuation from my poem It Is Time, but whereas that poem is about recognizing that a point of arrival has been reached, Square Peg is more about being ready to start out on the next part of the journey.

Things That Help #poem

Things that help include…

A slow start to the day,
with plenty of time for my morning routine…
at least half an hour for reading, lots of different books –
some daily inspiration, a chapter of a long novel,
a short story, some poetry,
and a few pages from a science magazine,
with a cup of black coffee (currently decaf) by my side,
and frequent stops to record an idea
or to note some words of wisdom I have spied.

Then, a dive into my Journal notebook (Moleskine, large, squared),
with my zero-point-nine millimetre Pentel
twist-grip propelling pencil in hand,
scribbling away,
as my thoughts coalesce through the words I write
in a way I simply cannot understand.

At least two or three runs each week…
Preferably, although not as often as I would like, out of the city,
even though I rarely feel that I want to go
and often set out wearing a frown,
ideally working towards some future long-distance event that,
despite crowding in on me horribly as it approaches,
seems to be a necessary challenge,
albeit one reluctantly thrown down.

Having enough money to keep buying books…
titles I come across that interest and intrigue,
for it seems that books are my favourite food
and provide me with much of the sustenance that I need.

Not being hungry…
so, yes, please do bring me that snack
(real food of course, not a book!)

Remembering to drink water…
because going without it is something for which
I really seem to have a knack,
until it is too late, my body dry,
and my brain shrivelled to uselessness by its lack.

Knowing what is coming up…
and having a plan for the hours and days ahead,
even though I know I will not follow my intentions,
will waste much of the day
and become frustrated with myself.
(It’ll be a complete disaster if I set off with no kind of schedule, instead.)

Getting outside into nature, trees, sky, clouds,
and all the rest of it…
especially when there are big views –
it’s so much better for connecting with the world
than a constant processed diet provided by The News.

Talking out my thoughts…
(even if you do not really want to listen,
as long as you nod every so often,
and give a few prompts to keep me going,
it will really help to boost my knowing
and keep my ideas growing.)

Being the master of my own time and space…
so that I can sort and sift my thoughts,
move slowly through the day,
and know where I am and where I am heading.

Working at my own pace…
but also not having to make too many choices.
Although I will always have an opinion –
I admit that’s true –
it is usually far better if you simply tell me what we’re going to do.

Encouragement and praise…
just the right amount and I have to believe that it is sincere.
Just like the ambrosia eaten by Gods it can be sweet and sticky,
so getting this one right is really tricky.

What doesn’t help is…

Losing sight of the things that help,
or forgetting that even though I am certain of their value,
I will often have to force myself to do them,
and that, with insufficient respect for myself,
I will likely lack the courage to make sure that they happen
Enough.

(c) Tim O’Hare, September 2023

THINGS THAT HELP: As I allude to in my note for The Hollow Man (and probably elsewhere) there are certain things I like to do each day or on a regular/routine basis that help me to maintain my level of functioning. I find that I can go for a few days without following my ‘morning routine’ but if I let things slip for any longer or fail to force myself out for a run or a walk in the countryside I start to unravel. Things That Help captures some of these activities and ingredients that keep me in balance and, most importantly, notes the need to keep them in sight and to keep pushing myself to do them. I’ve come to think that everyone should write out their own list of Things That Help and keep it in a prominent place as a reminder

It Is Time #poem

It is time to banish thoughts of giving up,
to be replaced by the comfort of giving in –
acceptance rather than flight,
to fold back the shutters,
emerging from the dark of night –
allowing in some light.

It is time to cease the role of the bully,
forcing the fearful child within
to be the man he thought he should.
Instead, enfolding in a loving hug
to draw out all he could have been.
If only he had understood.

It is time to give the boy a chance,
to give him space to play his part,
to let him fall and graze his elbow – blood and gravel –
even though tears may flow.
He may be strong enough.
How else will we know?

It is time to take those steps
that cross the threshold of the door,
to find that it was open all along –
never locked – and behind it?
The voice of the song oft heard,
though always sounding slightly wrong.

It is time to push on through the fog,
that cloak of damp that so confuses senses,
seeking clearer skies,
different colours, other forms
to try on for size.
Who knows how those choices may surprise?

It is time to give in,
not to temptation, hopelessness or terror,
but to follow the path
to those imagined lands,
shaping their form with my own hands.
Finally, he understands.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

IT IS TIME: This poem came completely out of the blue, coalescing onto the page in less than an hour. It reflects a big decision made on the previous day – to signal that I must let go of a big role at work, to stop fighting with the thought that to do so was some kind of failure, and to just accept that I no longer have it within me to push and cajole or fight with myself anymore.

An Encounter on Ilkley Moor #poem

It was the morning of the fourth day of July, twenty twenty-three,
and I was running, alone, on Ilkley Moor.
I could not take the path that I had planned,
for it was stolen from me by the grasp of ferns,
and so, instead, I found another way to travel west –
my route, like life, a path of unexpected turns.

As I drew level with a group of trees, planted in my mental map,
I turned to head, almost a scramble, up the rock-strewn slope,
until with the ground flattening all around, I came to a stone wall
and followed a well-worn path that lay in its shadow,
east, towards the radio mast.
From there I knew my way,
down the track they call the Keighley Road,
with a view across the valley over Ilkley town
that, like the passing of a life, would slip away too fast.

As I began my descent, his profile came into view,
to my right, just off the track,
though still some distance well ahead –
a small, dark man, sitting, gazing directly across my path,
chin resting on hands,
elbows propped on knees,
his head straining forwards
as if to peer through time to seek some other space.
He remained there as I closed, his features sharpening in my sight,
and I was struck how, like so much else in life,
his presence was incongruous.
For this did not seem to be his place.

I expected him to move as I approached, if only to shift his pose,
but he sat looking west across the track, across the moor – still.
And as my eyes searched for detail in his form
I saw that he was too small, about two-thirds the size of a man,
and so dark, yet without colour.

My brain was screaming at me: ‘Something is not right here’,
and I felt a heavy weight in the air around me.
I continued on,
towards the point beside the grey stone on which he sat.
My heart was beating fast, preparing to meet another life,
but on my arrival there was no-one there.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

AN ENCOUNTER ON ILKLEY MOOR: This poem tells the true story of an encounter that I had on a morning run while staying on Ilkley Moor for a week. There was a rock on the verge by the track that I ran along as I made my descent to our holiday let. As I came down the track towards it, I saw the figure of a small, dark man sitting there, just as I describe in the poem, and I instinctively felt that I was not able to recognise all that lay before me. Even now, many months later, I cannot let go of the fact that he was there and that, just for a few moments, either he or I was not in the right place.

Rock Giant #poem

You have used me as you wish to have your fun,
scrabbling roughly on the pockmarked surface of my skin,
climbing high to turn your face towards the sun.
You scrape your boots across me to remove accumulated soil,
and carving your initials in my surface,
give little thought to what you spoil.
You have taken from me what you need
using iron picks to gouge out fragments,
thinking that you caused no pain because you saw no sign I bleed.
You turn your eyes towards me and see only solid rock,
looking down upon my dumbness,
laughing as you mock.

By day, as you approach from the grassy slope below,
you start to notice many shapes of things you know.
You see an outline that reminds you of a faithful hound,
you watch it shift as you move forwards,
then it’s gone without a sound.
You turn to view a castle, but no soldiers move for they have fled.
You move your head to shape a profile –
only then you see the witch’s head.
You trace out furrowed brow, hooked nose and jutting chin;
you feel grey eyes look through you,
and you shiver as an evil spell takes hold within.

At night, in your imagination, led by an unheard call,
you see me rise up from my station as I yawn and stretch so tall.
You hear the distant thunder of my steps
as I march the slowest beat.
You sense vibrations deep below,
the trembling ground beneath my feet.
You are frightened of my power, as I tear the earth apart.
You are petrified, turned solid, as the terror grips your heart.
You are fearful that I come at last to take what I am due.
You sense that it is time.
And you are terrified that I am hunting, hunting now for you.

But none of this is true,
for all that you see, and everything that you imagine,
has been shaped by the stories you were told,
and what they let you do.
Those imagined forms, the wild thoughts,
and all the feelings they produce may seem fantastic
when compared with what is in your normal view.
So, what is the truth?
If only you knew…

I was formed from countless tiny pieces that began as dust,
mixed together in her bowl,
baked by her heat to form a crust.
I was once pressed tight together as I found my solid form,
extruded by her shuddering contractions,
melded in her womb so warm.
I have rested for so long as if I have no task,
snuggled by her mossy blanket,
wrapped protectively within her grasp.
I have waited patiently for several million years,
cooled by her gentle whispers,
washed clean by her falling tears.

For your time is not all time.
Your whole existence is the smallest fraction of my life.
This place was mine so long before you came,
and will remain my home for even longer once you die.

And your space is not all space.
Your whole world is like a single speck of the quartz that shines
within the substance of my form,
just one of countless millions of specks, all of which are mine.

And your thoughts are not all thoughts.
Your thoughts are small and they are fleeting, and so they rarely bend.
You are constrained by what they choose to tell you.
There is so much you cannot comprehend.

And your life is not all life.
Your life is short, and it is fast, and so it limits what you try to claim.
You cannot grasp the unfamiliar.
You are bound by the rules that shape your game.

Believe me, I do not lie.
I do not speak to garner fame.
For beyond all that you can see, and everything that you imagine,
are stories to be told and things to see that far expand your frame.
You may think you are the only one who holds within a spark,
but that is falsehood as we share that conscious flame.
I too am alive,
and Rock Giant is my name.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

ROCK GIANT: The last few walks that we have done have been on the familiar territory of Dartmoor, taking in one or more of the rocky tors that sit atop many of the hill summits. These enormous piles of granite slabs are the remnants of old volcanoes, material pushed upwards from the upper mantle almost 300 million years ago. I find it impossible to visit a tor without seeing the profiles of faces in the shapes made by the great piles of rocks, or imagining that the rocks are the tip of a toe, an elbow or some other part of a huge stone giant asleep beneath the ground. And then, in a natural progression of my thoughts, those rock giants begin to stir. I am not at all sure why, in the poem, I imagined the rock giant as a threat. My instinct is that they are, in fact, very gentle and friendly creatures. But, of course, I will never really know, because they still have much sleeping to do before they awaken.

The Hollow Man #poem

He does not signal his arrival with a knock upon the door.
I am not warned of his entry by footsteps sounding on the floor.
He is not accompanied by wraith-like wisps of mist.
Nor does he lean in close to give my cheeks a loving kiss.
There is no movement as he slides into the room.
I only realise he is present when overcome by gloom.

For he is a master of disguise,
sidling up to me, out of sight of prying eyes
until he has taken up his place,
occupying every single atom of my space,
matching every feature, to cast a shadow on my face.
He reshapes my breath to turn each exhalation into a sigh,
and cries tears upon my heart to dowse the flames
and cause the fire to die.

If I am sitting reading in a chair,
he squeezes in to look upon the words,
and twists their meanings
so that they transform, grotesquely and absurd.
If I am gazing from the window to catch sight of nature’s green,
he draws a veil across my eyes to wipe away life’s vibrant sheen.
If I am setting out upon a chosen path,
he conjures fog so thick and heavy that I cannot find the start.
If I have hopes to pursue a long-awaited plan,
he shows me every obstacle and challenge that he can.
He breaks the bridges of my imagination
so that they have insufficient span.
He was with me yesterday.
He is The Hollow Man.

He does not ask if it is convenient for him to share my time.
I have no say in this, the choice is his, not mine.
He does not consider for one moment
whether I would like him near,
for if he needs my space he takes it with no fear.
He gives no thought to any impact that he makes.
It’s up to him to choose the one he takes.

For he is a master of deceit,
and if he needs to feed then he will eat
until he has taken all he grips,
draining arteries with a thousand sips,
sucking out the marrow through his lips.
He gnaws away until my bones are stripped of meat,
and leaves the empty carcass in a heap.

When he is with me all I feel is rank despair.
I try to look ahead but only find a vacant stare.
When he is with me I can see no hope,
I cannot move as I would like, my walk becomes a slope.
When he is with me there is only cloud,
and I would even welcome then a deathly shroud.
When he is with me there is nothing you can say,
for I am empty till he moves away.
There is no weapon you can use to end his stay.
He is The Hollow Man,
and he will have his day.

Yet, he will tire, and then as softly as he came,
I find that he has slipped away to leave me with my fragile frame,
and if I search with care for what lies buried in the depths,
I find that he has not quite stripped me as I slept.
For there are embers that still burn though feebly bright,
that, tended gently, provide new warmth that brings a light.

For he is a master who will make his mark,
and from those tiny flames out jumps a spark,
until it catches on the dried-out skin,
taking hold to make new flames begin,
exploding with the hidden energy within,
then bursting outwards as a firework on its arc,
until the world no longer seems so dark.

There is no fanfare as he leaves his host,
he simply slips into the ether to become another haunting ghost.
There is no note to say farewell,
no threat that he’ll return to cast his spell.
But I expect that he’ll be back,
that he will claw his way inside once more
to turn my soul to black.
And strangely, though his visits cause much strain,
the gift he brings is worth the pain,
and even though I shudder at his name,
I know with certainty that he will come again.

He is the slaughterer –
the one who feeds upon the lamb.
He is the emptier –
the one who draws out all the poison
that has spread across the land.
He is The Hollow Man,
and I must welcome his arrival,
for he is part of who I am.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

THE HOLLOW MAN: I would say that I am usually in a fairly positive frame of mind, but every so often, and always without any real warning, I find that I have slipped into a deep state in which I have absolutely zero motivation and can see no point whatsoever in doing anything at all. I become uncommunicative, I mutter, I trudge. I know that I am in this state, but I am powerless to change things; in fact, in the moment, I don’t want to. The best way that I can describe how I feel is empty, or hollow. Over time, I have learned that this down phase passes, and usually I wake the next morning feeling back to normal, better even, than I did before the dip. My energy levels shoot back up, and I feel more inspired. ‘The Hollow Man’ was written on such a morning. After a terrible dip the previous day I had spent an hour or so reading, gone for a short run, and emerged from the shower with the first two lines of the poem in my head. As soon as I could I stood at my whiteboard, wrote out those two lines and then followed the seam to chip out the whole of the first verse. At that point I was thinking that I should stop, but I soon found myself at the computer typing in the first verse and then, over the next couple of hours, all of the rest of the poem tumbled out. At the outset, I had no idea that the poem would ultimately become uplifting (well I think it is uplifting!) and perhaps even a little profound.

Poetry #poem

I do not know if my poems are any good,
but it seems they help my essence to be understood,
whether by others or simply by myself,
this last, of course, itself essential for my health.

I do not know if my poems are enjoyable to read,
but it seems that crafting them fulfils some vital need,
and that allowing thoughts and feelings to gush forth
provides a compass I can use to find my north.

It seems as if through searching for each rhyme
I’ve stumbled on a way to slow down time,
and that now, through sculpting syllable-istic rhythm,
I see the world in multitudinous ways –
split infinite like sunlight passing through a prism.

And so, once more, I drop into the mine,
to chip away and work the line,
to trace the seam right to its core,
and scrape out all the mineral ore.
I hammer hard to split a rock,
in hope it is a nugget-bearing block,
in hope it might just be the one to hold
a precious, piece of sparkling gold.

I do not know if my poems hit the mark,
but certainly they’ve lit a spark.
So now the flames inside me roar,
and I can ask for nothing more.

Here goes…
First, time slows,
an idea flows,
like water spurting from a hose.
The seedling grows.
The petals unfurl upon the rose.

I take my chance…
Falling deep into the trance,
where visions glance,
words prance,
and rhythms dance.
And then I emerge, life enhanced.

In those moments, my whole world collapses onto a single spot.
So much energy compressed into a tiny dot-
freezing cold yet furnace hot.
I do not know if my poems are any good.
I do not know if my poems are enjoyable to read.
I do not know if my poems hit the mark.
It matters not.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

POETRY: I had some nice feedback on the first few poems that I wrote, but as this all came from people that knew me well it was impossible not to feel that it must be biased, even if only subconsciously. I began to think about whether my poems really were any good. This is the kind of thinking that usually drains my motivation and stops me in my tracks. But I have changed a bit in recent months, and pondering this a little more, I was able to acknowledge that whether or not anyone else liked my poems, I enjoyed the process of creating them, and was learning about myself as I did so.

The Killing Field #poem

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me
from the piercing horn of a bull’s rush,
the digoxin punch of a fox’s glove,
or a saliva-damp kiss from a cow’s lip.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me
from the aconitine grip of the wolf’s bane,
the spicular burn from a nettle’s leaf,
or a sudden unexpected stroke of a pony’s tail.

This is the killing field –
and just for once, the danger does not even come
from those who strip the land to build and burn,
who work the soil to plant and grow,
who take whatever they wish to take,
who go wherever they wish to go.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
It comes to the little creatures
that scuttle and slither over ground,
or paddle at the water’s edge,
or take flight into the humid air,
or hide away within the sedge.
For they refused to yield
to kiss the ground before the wise birds’ shrieks,
and so were baited by the raptors’ curse.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
It comes to the mouse, the rabbit and the vole,
not fast enough to find a hole,
the beetle, grub and dragonfly,
left with no escape to try,
the snake, the newt, the toad, the frog,
too slow to get beneath a log,
the pigeon, finch and moorhen chick,
this time, alas, insufficiently quick.

This is the killing field –
and for all the little creatures that you love,
death comes unheralded from far above.

First comes
Buteo buteo (Buzzard):
Mightiest of all,
soaring high in thermal plumes,
before swooping down
to grasp in taloned feet
the unfortunate prey it must consume.

Then comes
Circus aeruginosus (Marsh Harrier):
Not far behind in stature and power,
ranging low with undulating flight,
before entering the reed bed
to pluck out
the tiny creatures hiding there in fright.

But not all threats require wings of such size, for now come
Falco tinnunculus (Kestrel):
Fast wings, steady hover,
sharp eyes,
before falling like a stone
to pounce
with great surprise
and
Falco subbuteo (Hobby):
Wings swept, swift flier,
thrilling chase,
before making the snatch,
to prove
that it has won the race.

An optimist might think
that the setting of the sun
and the falling of the dark
could bring respite.
But this is the killing field –
and the danger comes both day and night.

For now, in fading light, comes
Tyro alba (Barn Owl):
Heavy flaps, ghostly glide,
a pause upon a post,
before the sudden drop
to make the surprise visit
to its host.

Then, as darkness gathers like a cloak, comes
Athene noctua (Little Owl):
Sitting, watching from a lofty perch,
shattering the silence with its screech,
before flying down,
to snaffle up
whatever it can reach.

And finally, with all light gone, comes
Strix aluco (Tawny Owl):
Master of the dark,
Night vision goggled, waiting patiently with hunting ears,
Before pouncing,
silently,
on each and every morsel of a meal it hears.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
The danger comes from far above
from birds named with gladiatorial sounding words:
Buteo buteo and Circus aeruginosus –
majestic Buzzard and Marsh Harrier.
Falcos tinnunculus and Subbuteo –
agile Kestrel and Hobby.
Tyro alba, Athene noctua and Strix aluco:
Barn, Little, Tawny – three wise owls.

This is the killing field –
and the danger comes with such beauty and grace,
that seeing Death
has never before
put such a smile upon my face.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

THE KILLING FIELD: While staying in Suffolk during the second week of our summer holiday we walked around Redgrave and Lopham Fen one afternoon. Having seen various birds, but not being entirely sure that I had been able to identify them all correctly, I made sure that we went back for a second look, and I was really thrilled to confirm my first ever sightings of a Marsh Harrier and a Hobby along with the oft-seen Buzzard and Kestrel. These are all beautiful birds, and it was fascinating to watch their different flight patterns and to look up information about their diets and hunting styles. But it struck me quite forcibly that with that beauty and guile came death, and the idea that the area around the fen was a ‘Killing Field’ took root in my head. During our stay we also heard or were told of the whereabouts of several different species of owls – the evening and night hunters – and so I threw those into the deadly mix too.