Covey

My backyard view
grew one, then two
grey partridge.
Pick and peck
some grainy speck,
some tasty smidge.
Three, and four,
five, six or more
plump, slate ridge-
patterned, seethed
around the floor
like woodlice when
you lift a stone.
Eight, nine or ten?
I lost count. One
saw the dog. Two
ran. All flew. Gone.

Happy Birthday, Mr Shakespeare

A while back, I won a competition to write a poem "from" a famous writer in thanks for an unexpected Christmas present. Given the date, I thought I'd recycle it.

***

Mr Shakespeare’s thanks for a Satellite Navigation System

My thanks to you for this most magic choice.
You say that knowledge, docile in my hand,
Will speak, will guide me with a human voice
To smooth my journey through this foreign land?

Must I attend to her, the Ariel
Confined within this box by Prospero?
Her honeyed phrases softly fall to tell
Me, the tired traveller, of the miles to go.

Although my feet comply, my heart rebels
For in my mind no woman holds such sway;
I should be seeking out her velvet dells
And sweetly talking her to walk my way,

Until, impatient of all public spaces,
She navigates me to her private places.

***