Trees - Bats and a Red Dragon

When the children were young we spent summer holidays in Pembrokeshire. We were fortunate to have the use of a static caravan owned by family. It was situated on a spacious site by the coast, surrounded by woodland. My husband warned our children to keep away from ‘the forest’ because a bright red dragon lived there. It was very fierce and snorted flames through huge nostrils. It was also very good at sniffing out children who were still awake after a certain time, apparently. The children weren’t quite sure about a dragon hiding in our trees, though they had seen plenty of Red Dragon themed items in the shops and didn’t doubt their existence. One day we were driving through the woods along the winding lane that took us to the main road when we saw a goat tethered to a tree.

“Oh look, there’s the dragon’s dinner!”  Said Dad to two horrified children.

Well, that was a step too far, especially when we returned later to find the goat no longer there.

When our children were a little older, they liked to be ‘scared’ by my husband stopping the car at night on the darkest stretch of the lane and turning the headlights off. No one wanted to be first to say ‘let’s go’ and get ridiculed by the others. It was usually me suggesting an end to silly games as it was nearly bed time. Nothing to do with fear, certainly not.

We never saw a real dragon but we did see the bats that lived in the trees. They flew around at dusk and we would watch them from the caravan veranda as we relaxed when the children were asleep after a fun-filled day.

Our children are now parents themselves. They still refer to the woodland near the caravan as the forest. If they ever visit with their little ones, I’m sure our legend of the Red Dragon will live on.
 

I was searching for a suitable poem about trees to add to my blog when vanity got the better of me and I looked no further than ‘The Tree in Pamela’s Garden’. Well, it had to be, didn’t it?

What I wasn’t expecting was eight pages of ‘A Literary Analysis’ about the fairly short poem.  The scrutiny kept me engrossed for a while, fascinated and amused with a bit of disbelief and lots of ‘What are they on about?’ or ‘What are they on?’ Either I’ve been away from education for too long, or I haven’t studied American poetry and poets enough.

 

 

The Tree in Pamela’s Garden

Pamela was too gentle to deceive
Her roses. “Let the men stay where they are,”
She said, “and if Apollo’s avatar
Be one of them, I shall not have to grieve.”
And so she made all Tilbury Town believe
She sighed a little more for the North Star
Than over men, and only in so far
As she was in a garden was like Eve.

Her neighbors—doing all that neighbors can
To make romance of reticence meanwhile—
Seeing that she had never loved a man,
Wished Pamela had a cat, or a small bird,
And only would have wondered at her smile
Could they have seen that she had overheard.

 

Edwin Arlington Robinson    1869 – 1935 Maine USA

If I had a proper tree in my garden, there would be also be a bench, like the picture. Not my photo, just looks appealing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Bonnie Tyler's Lament

As some of you know, I am in the final year of the 'English: language, literature and creative writing' degree at Blackpool and Fylde College.  My final portfolio is due in tomorrow so you will forgive me if I'm up to my eyeballs in the tired slime of editing right now.  However, for your delectation, please find below the descriptive introduction to the first piece of storytelling which I attempted with David Riley in Summer 2011.  It's set in a forest in New Zealand and the story is called The Bird Woman and Hatupatu.

Sunlight tints the horizon and indigo fades against blushes of crimson, orange, delicate pink.  On the southerly twin of a pair of islands, the forest wakes gradually from its slumber.  The moss-green, owl-like Kakapo bird and the mammoth, grasshopper-like Weta retire to their slumber.  In their place, the gossiping Kaka parrots and the blue-throated kokako which climbs the trees to gain height only to glide back down again.  Its song – flute-like – is the most beautiful of the forest.  

The new morning’s light breaks through the crown of foliage, picks out the round, flat canopy of a tree fern, the vibrant scarlet of a flowering rata tree.  It finds pockets of violet pouch fungus and bright blue entoloma mushrooms, a thick carpet of moss, clumps of perching lilies clinging to branches and a twisted knotwork of supplejack vine connecting the trees in a haphazard tapestry.  

The music of the morning forest approaches a crescendo of courtship and debate.  The canopy pops with song as the sunlight coaxes a procession of activity.  A red feather descends through the chill air.  It comes to rest upon a  flat stone in the centre of a clearing.  It rests beside a mound of insects – spiders, worms, grubs, beetles – which writhe in states of partial dismemberment.  Crushed and broken, the insects squirm but cannot escape the platform.  

Sitting astride another stone, veiled by a knot of supplejack vine, a woman sits – silent, still.  She watches the insects with her glass-bead eyes.  About her shoulders, a cloak of glossy black feathers.  Beneath the cloak, a pair of strong, white feathered wings.  Her nails are long and sharp.  Her lips, if they are lips, point out of her face like a short, bronze beak.  The bird woman, Kurangaituku, sits, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and she watches the insects; she watches her bait.

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