The Morning Whistles

A Shostakovitch  passacaglia starts it,

Emitted from my lips, chapped and dry,

With too little breath to really complete it,

And switched off quickly from passers-by.

Then the high distress of an oyster catcher,

As it circles the mud banks now exposed,

And the sudden clap of a flock of pigeons,

Ignored by the cormorants in rows,

Hanging their ragged black washing to dry,

On what’s left of a tree stump nearby.

But taken up by hysterical widgeon,

While the terrified egret, frogspawn snatcher,

Amphibian and reptile dispatcher,

Rises up slowly and flaps away,

When the dog, still youthful and uncouth,

Startles his equal in vulgarity,

A mallard duck like a dinner lady,

Cursing loudly and lacking in charity,

Repeating the same words each working day,

Whose mate acknowledging she speaks the truth,

Albeit with indifference, rude and grudging,

Adds to the chorus a half-arsed croak,

Before continuing diving and dredging,

Before declaring that he‘s feeling needy,

And sweeping fat Doris duck under his cloak,

Down at the old pond’s edge, where it’s reedy,

Bobbing up further off bright and beady.

And the loutish dog ventures in for a soak,

While in the wheat field behind the floodwall,

The crazy radio interference

Of a skylark, making its first appearance,

Adds to the morning a new dimension,

And momentarily diverts my attention,

As I try to discover the birds loud and small,

Whose inhaling/exhaling whistling,

Sounds rather rude to anyone listening,

Like ancient bed springs pumping and creaking,

In short bursts, as if things are flagging.

And I feel voyeuristic, almost sneaking,

And the dog turns round to see why I’m lagging,

When suddenly all the mornings squeaking,

Is drowned out by a noise more urgent and loud,

As a wayward rabbit apart from the crowd,

Seized by the throat by a weasel or stoat,

Trumps the morning whistles with squealing.