Thursday, 1 October 2015
-
Today has been a good day - sunny weather, a very interesting spirituality study day with Adrian Scott, a poet from Sheffield, whose own poems (and works by Dylan Thomas) were thought provoking and stimulating . . . plus too much chocolate brownie (but then again, can you have too much chocolate brownie). An enjoyable drive home, then harvest festival at New Street United Church, Welshpool, with musical contributions from the marvellous Bordermen. And a pleasant interlude afterwards at the King's Head, Guilsfield. A day for decisions, too - the right ones, I think.
Wednesday, 9 September 2015
Dust
Another poem in progress . . .
Everywhere is dust coloured,
everywhere is dust; swirls and eddies of wind
whirl it about, while shoes, for those who have them,
are outside quickly covered, and half filled inside.
Even the fabric of the rough tents
is more dust than cotton.
There is nothing green here. No tree grows,
no blade of grass, even. This was supposed to be
a transit camp, a pause along the way,
time to take stock, to plan the next step.
It does not feel like that now,
after so many days, so many dusty days.
There are no facilitators,
no manufacturers of passports and promises and hope.
They have gone. It is a common enough mistake:
having been paid up front, they are no doubt
repeating the exercise with a new crop
of wide-eyed and desperate pilgrims.
There is food, at least; not a lot, but enough.
It comes as a bargaining counter, or maybe a subtle threat:
we will feed you so long as you stay here,
and do not cross any further oceans,
or beg at our doors, or sleep in our streets.
This is as far as you get.
If you want to eat, this is as far as you get;
if you want your children to eat.
So the food comes dusted with condescending compassion,
carefully measured out, a ration of grudging kindness.
But we do not want compassion, but just to live,
free from fear, and not left to turn into dust.
Everywhere is dust coloured,
everywhere is dust; swirls and eddies of wind
whirl it about, while shoes, for those who have them,
are outside quickly covered, and half filled inside.
Even the fabric of the rough tents
is more dust than cotton.
There is nothing green here. No tree grows,
no blade of grass, even. This was supposed to be
a transit camp, a pause along the way,
time to take stock, to plan the next step.
It does not feel like that now,
after so many days, so many dusty days.
There are no facilitators,
no manufacturers of passports and promises and hope.
They have gone. It is a common enough mistake:
having been paid up front, they are no doubt
repeating the exercise with a new crop
of wide-eyed and desperate pilgrims.
There is food, at least; not a lot, but enough.
It comes as a bargaining counter, or maybe a subtle threat:
we will feed you so long as you stay here,
and do not cross any further oceans,
or beg at our doors, or sleep in our streets.
This is as far as you get.
If you want to eat, this is as far as you get;
if you want your children to eat.
So the food comes dusted with condescending compassion,
carefully measured out, a ration of grudging kindness.
But we do not want compassion, but just to live,
free from fear, and not left to turn into dust.
Together
(Poem now nearing completion, I think)
This road we’ve walked together,
winding westward to the sea, gulls calling from the cliffs,
and a sky streaked with red and gold,
sign and promise of a fine day to come. We see
this evening's first lights appear in distant windows,
as moths ghost their way along the hedgebanks,
meadowsweet and honeysuckle scent the air,
and bats flitter between the trees. This has been a good day,
a good walk and time together,
for all there’s been a wrong turning or two along the way.
And now we can see the lamps along the harbour wall,
and riding lights flicker on the night boats
as they rise on a new tide. And so it is:
day's end, walk's end, a rest to come,
still together, and there are new things yet to see, new songs to sing,
while the promise nestles safe within our hearts
of a new day's alleluia at our next awakening.
This road we’ve walked together,
winding westward to the sea, gulls calling from the cliffs,
and a sky streaked with red and gold,
sign and promise of a fine day to come. We see
this evening's first lights appear in distant windows,
as moths ghost their way along the hedgebanks,
meadowsweet and honeysuckle scent the air,
and bats flitter between the trees. This has been a good day,
a good walk and time together,
for all there’s been a wrong turning or two along the way.
And now we can see the lamps along the harbour wall,
and riding lights flicker on the night boats
as they rise on a new tide. And so it is:
day's end, walk's end, a rest to come,
still together, and there are new things yet to see, new songs to sing,
while the promise nestles safe within our hearts
of a new day's alleluia at our next awakening.
Sunday, 6 September 2015
Together
A road walked together,
westward to the sea, the gulls calling from the cliffs,
sky streaked with red and gold, sign of a good day to come.
This evening's first lights appear,
moths ghost their way along the hedgebanks,
bats fly between the trees. It has been a good day,
a good walk, despite a wrong turning or two.
We can see now the lights along the harbour wall,
the riding lights on the boats, rising on the new tide.
Day's end, walk's end, a rest to come:
still together, still with new things to see, new songs to sing,
a new day's alleluia at our awakening.
(First draft, 6th September)
westward to the sea, the gulls calling from the cliffs,
sky streaked with red and gold, sign of a good day to come.
This evening's first lights appear,
moths ghost their way along the hedgebanks,
bats fly between the trees. It has been a good day,
a good walk, despite a wrong turning or two.
We can see now the lights along the harbour wall,
the riding lights on the boats, rising on the new tide.
Day's end, walk's end, a rest to come:
still together, still with new things to see, new songs to sing,
a new day's alleluia at our awakening.
(First draft, 6th September)
Wednesday, 2 September 2015
Sticklebacks
I remember: jam jars on strings,
holiday fishing nets, days when time stood still.
Wading through the dusty field of tussock grass
to the splashy brook that meandered through.
And that pool on a bend in the stream,
where the flow of the water slowed: it was ours,
made by us from clods and stones
collected for a dam - and how it crawled
with shrimps and water-fleas,
beetles and boatmen and little snails,
froglets sometimes, and the minnows
and sticklebacks that were our chosen quest.
We were not far from the town: familiar noises linger in my mind:
a rumble of traffic from the main road,
steam whistles from the shunting yards, the steady hum
of the English Electric works.
But this was our bit of country - I remember
the time we saw a kestrel drop down to catch a vole,
the shrew that dashed out in front of my scooter
(I crashed it and lost a wheel);
and always the fine golden sun ruling the sky,
and always the hours and hours we had till tea.
But the sticklebacks were our delight -
we caught them and brought them home
to stay a night with us, silver fish in silver jars,
protected from cats behind a cardboard screen
in a corner of our back yard. And I’m sure that next day
we must have taken them back to the brook,
or maybe it was Dad who did it.
For by then we children had a new quest:
hunting for fat hairy caterpillars. In the same jars,
emptied of water and stuffed with miscellaneous leaves,
with kitchen-scissored holes in the black lids,
they would pupate, to emerge as bright tiger moths
before the long days ended of our childhood holidays
under that bright and glorious and forever sun.
holiday fishing nets, days when time stood still.
Wading through the dusty field of tussock grass
to the splashy brook that meandered through.
And that pool on a bend in the stream,
where the flow of the water slowed: it was ours,
made by us from clods and stones
collected for a dam - and how it crawled
with shrimps and water-fleas,
beetles and boatmen and little snails,
froglets sometimes, and the minnows
and sticklebacks that were our chosen quest.
We were not far from the town: familiar noises linger in my mind:
a rumble of traffic from the main road,
steam whistles from the shunting yards, the steady hum
of the English Electric works.
But this was our bit of country - I remember
the time we saw a kestrel drop down to catch a vole,
the shrew that dashed out in front of my scooter
(I crashed it and lost a wheel);
and always the fine golden sun ruling the sky,
and always the hours and hours we had till tea.
But the sticklebacks were our delight -
we caught them and brought them home
to stay a night with us, silver fish in silver jars,
protected from cats behind a cardboard screen
in a corner of our back yard. And I’m sure that next day
we must have taken them back to the brook,
or maybe it was Dad who did it.
For by then we children had a new quest:
hunting for fat hairy caterpillars. In the same jars,
emptied of water and stuffed with miscellaneous leaves,
with kitchen-scissored holes in the black lids,
they would pupate, to emerge as bright tiger moths
before the long days ended of our childhood holidays
under that bright and glorious and forever sun.
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Insects that bite and sting . . .
. . . my "Nature Notes" article for the month ahead :-
We were sitting outside in the sunshine with a glass or two the other day when a particularly persistent wasp decided to spoil the party. We are surrounded by millions of insects, and some of them can be a bit of a pain.
Wasps and hornets are probably the more feared than most British insects, and some people can have extreme allergic reactions to their stings. Hornets, though larger than wasps and with a nastier sting, are much less aggressive than smaller wasps and are really no trouble provided you keep your distance. Other insects can be confused with hornets, such as queen wasps and some quite harmless insects like the giant wood wasp (stingless) or the hornet clearwing moth. At this time of the year wasps have less work to do and lots of sweet stuff to binge on - hence they start to be more troublesome. Our instinctive reaction is to try to bat them away; I do it, but it’s never a good idea - it only makes them cross and all the more more likely to sting. If you do get stung and start to feel faint, out of breath or your skin begins to swell up, seek immediate medical attention.
Like wasps, bees will sting when they feel threatened, and we can be allergic to their stings too. Bee and wasp venoms are quite different from each other. Ants can also be venomous; ant poison is administered via a bite, but most British ants don’t have high toxin levels, and won’t cause much damage. Ant and bee stings are acid, and I recall we used to treat them with washing blue; wasp stings are alkaline, and can be eased with a bit of vinegar. The little black garden ants don’t bite.
Horseflies are my number one hate. Bees, wasps and ants bite or sting if threatened, but horseflies really are out to get you, and some can be very persistent. In my experience, there are those that sneak up on you, and you don’t know they are there until they have bitten you, but even nastier are the big black horseflies that have a loud and very annoying buzz and just seem to want to terrify you into submission (maybe that makes the blood flow more freely). Horseflies are in fact placid vegetarians most of the time, but the female, as with mosquitoes, needs mammalian blood before she can lay her eggs. They cause damage by ripping the skin so that blood flows freely, which they then lap up. The wound is very painful, can easily become infected, and horseflies can also carry a number of diseases. It’s important to treat wounds with antiseptic wipes, and keep them free from dirt.
Midges and mosquitoes are a nuisance rather than a danger in the UK, though of course mosquitoes spread malaria and other dangerous diseases elsewhere in the world. Mozzies are more active in the early morning and the evening than at other times - cover up, and use over-the-counter repellants. Then there are ticks - but they’re not actually insects, so I’ll leave them for another time!
We were sitting outside in the sunshine with a glass or two the other day when a particularly persistent wasp decided to spoil the party. We are surrounded by millions of insects, and some of them can be a bit of a pain.
Wasps and hornets are probably the more feared than most British insects, and some people can have extreme allergic reactions to their stings. Hornets, though larger than wasps and with a nastier sting, are much less aggressive than smaller wasps and are really no trouble provided you keep your distance. Other insects can be confused with hornets, such as queen wasps and some quite harmless insects like the giant wood wasp (stingless) or the hornet clearwing moth. At this time of the year wasps have less work to do and lots of sweet stuff to binge on - hence they start to be more troublesome. Our instinctive reaction is to try to bat them away; I do it, but it’s never a good idea - it only makes them cross and all the more more likely to sting. If you do get stung and start to feel faint, out of breath or your skin begins to swell up, seek immediate medical attention.
Like wasps, bees will sting when they feel threatened, and we can be allergic to their stings too. Bee and wasp venoms are quite different from each other. Ants can also be venomous; ant poison is administered via a bite, but most British ants don’t have high toxin levels, and won’t cause much damage. Ant and bee stings are acid, and I recall we used to treat them with washing blue; wasp stings are alkaline, and can be eased with a bit of vinegar. The little black garden ants don’t bite.
Horseflies are my number one hate. Bees, wasps and ants bite or sting if threatened, but horseflies really are out to get you, and some can be very persistent. In my experience, there are those that sneak up on you, and you don’t know they are there until they have bitten you, but even nastier are the big black horseflies that have a loud and very annoying buzz and just seem to want to terrify you into submission (maybe that makes the blood flow more freely). Horseflies are in fact placid vegetarians most of the time, but the female, as with mosquitoes, needs mammalian blood before she can lay her eggs. They cause damage by ripping the skin so that blood flows freely, which they then lap up. The wound is very painful, can easily become infected, and horseflies can also carry a number of diseases. It’s important to treat wounds with antiseptic wipes, and keep them free from dirt.
Midges and mosquitoes are a nuisance rather than a danger in the UK, though of course mosquitoes spread malaria and other dangerous diseases elsewhere in the world. Mozzies are more active in the early morning and the evening than at other times - cover up, and use over-the-counter repellants. Then there are ticks - but they’re not actually insects, so I’ll leave them for another time!
Saturday, 22 August 2015
Sermon for tomorrow
. . . to be preached at Marton, Llanymynech and Corndon Marsh. Text (RCL) Ephesians 6.10-20 and John 6.56-69.
A sentence struck me as I was reading through the scriptures for today, and it was this: “From that moment many of his disciples drew back and no longer went about with him.” I wonder what provoked that? What was going through the minds of those people who had followed Jesus but now fell away?
I didn’t register for the Labour party leadership election. I was slightly tempted. I’m very much a floating voter, but now and again I have voted Labour. Mr Jeremy Corbyn, though not as far as I know a religious man, is in a way the most messianic of the candidates. I can see why he’s become the front runner, and why he seems to be gathering support from young and idealistic party members and supporters, however damaging it all might be to Labour’s electoral chances.
I reckon Jesus attracted people like that: idealists, who liked the sound of this new world, this Kingdom he talked about. But how do you get there? Some of his folowers were realising that this man was making some powerful enemies. What he said sounded good, but the road was looking less like a triumphal procession than a collision course. It’s all very well to say that the meek shall inherit the earth, but what if the other guys don’t agree?
Jesus even offered his closest companions a chance to take the exit door. “Do you also want to leave?” he asks them - and I think what he was meaning was something like “You can leave too if that’s what you want. I shan’t hold it against you.” It’s Peter who speaks up of course, but he speaks for them all: “Where else can we go? To whom else can we turn? You speak the words of life.”
People were beginning to walk out on Jesus because he was saying things that sounded a bit weird, and they were beginning to think that this might not be such an easy ride. You have to aim pretty high to keep up with this man: people prefer to be comfortable, and this was starting to look as if it might not be. The Twelve must have been as shocked as everyone else at some of the things Jesus said - what did he mean by it? But they stayed with him because, as Peter sort of said, “We may not understand everything you’re saying to us, but we know what you are, we know you’re God’s man.”
By the time Paul wrote his Letter to the Ephesians he knew very well that to follow Jesus wasn’t an easy road. He’d had his own share of beatings and imprisonment, and he speaks of himself as “an ambassador in chains.” He begins the last chapter of his letter to the Ephesians by telling them to find their strength in the Lord, and follows that with those amazing words that compare what they’ll need for the fight with the armour worn by a Roman soldier. And that’s a good comparison: there were no soldiers in the ancient world better prepared and protected than the army of Rome.
I’ll say a bit more about that armour in a moment, but first a question I ask myself on a regular basis: how committed am I, really? How far would I go, how much would I face, to follow my Lord? How good am I at dealing with the stuff that tempts me away from where I should be and what I should be doing? Don’t I drift from the path and lose my way all too easily, again and again? And does Jesus even want me, after all this time, and after all this failure?
It seems to me that the devil’s very good at persuading people they’re not good enough, they can never be good enough, so they may as well give up trying. Even so-called saints have feet of clay really, he tells us. So give up, and enjoy yourselves instead.
Paul came across plenty of human opposition in his ministry, but that isn’t what he’s writing about in the words we’ve heard to the Ephesians. He speaks to them about the wiles, the stratagems of the devil, saying “Our struggle is not against human foes, but against the elemental forces of the universe.” Just as mine is today, and yours.
One of the reasons why the Roman army was so effective was that they had excellent defensive armour. The great shield especially, when raised up and employed properly left pretty much no way through for the enemy. Use the armour God gives you, says Paul to the Ephesians, and he says it to us too.
What does this armour consist of? Paul talks about truth, integrity, peace: in other words, not just looking good on the outside, but being true at heart; and then he speaks of the great shield, which is the shield of faith, along with the helmet of salvation. Those disciples who faded away when it looked as though the going might get tough lacked faith; unlike the Twelve, they couldn’t bring themselves to be sure of Jesus. And we have the helmet of salvation. The conflict may continue, but the decisive battle has already been won. And though we may sometimes fail, and stray, and let our Lord down - as did every one of the Twelve at some point - we’re not excluded by that, that doesn’t mean we’re not good enough. Jesus has made us good enough, he has given us a share in his victory. Through him we have access to the Father, despite ourselves. In him we find a love that will never let us down; the journey we make with him, though sometimes the road may be hard, is our journey home. As Jesus says in John chapter 14: “In my Father’s house there are many rooms. I am going to prepare a place for you.”
With this promise in mind, I can resist the temptation to give up and to stop believing. Or I should be able to. In fact I’m not always good at keeping my armour up to scratch, and sometimes that armour doesn’t work as well as it should. We keep our armour in good trim by coming regularly to our Lord’s table, and between those times by being disciplined in our praying, our reading of the Bible, and the way we seek Jesus out and choose to spend time with him. We need to do this, just as the Roman soldier needed to work hard on his armour to keep it up to scratch. If he didn’t, he’d be a weak link in the wall of shields that presented such an impregnable defence against any opposing force.
“Seven days without prayer make one weak (w-e-A-k).” I recall seeing that on a church notice board, and it’s right. Paul tells the Ephesians to “constantly ask God’s help in prayer, and pray always in the power of the Spirit.” And to be watchful, and attentive, for what we face is rarely a full-on attack, it’s more subtle than that, more persuasive, cleverer. So we need to be on our guard.
Finally, Paul adds to all this defensive armour the one weapon he talks about, which is the sword: the sword the Spirit gives you, he says, which is the word of God. So is this a soldier taking cover and cowering behind his shield? No it’s not: Paul reminds us that we’ve a job to do and a word to speak, and that God has sent his Spirit to help us do it. The Roman soldier knew when to take cover and when to break out of cover, and take the initiative. And though sometimes all I can do is to hold on, faith requires me to do more: to live for Jesus, to work for Jesus, to strive for Jesus. So I pray: Grant me shelter and refuge when I need it, Lord, but then show me how I can be an active witness to your love - and may your Church be a bright light in every dark place, shining your love into needy and broken lives. Amen.
A sentence struck me as I was reading through the scriptures for today, and it was this: “From that moment many of his disciples drew back and no longer went about with him.” I wonder what provoked that? What was going through the minds of those people who had followed Jesus but now fell away?
I didn’t register for the Labour party leadership election. I was slightly tempted. I’m very much a floating voter, but now and again I have voted Labour. Mr Jeremy Corbyn, though not as far as I know a religious man, is in a way the most messianic of the candidates. I can see why he’s become the front runner, and why he seems to be gathering support from young and idealistic party members and supporters, however damaging it all might be to Labour’s electoral chances.
I reckon Jesus attracted people like that: idealists, who liked the sound of this new world, this Kingdom he talked about. But how do you get there? Some of his folowers were realising that this man was making some powerful enemies. What he said sounded good, but the road was looking less like a triumphal procession than a collision course. It’s all very well to say that the meek shall inherit the earth, but what if the other guys don’t agree?
Jesus even offered his closest companions a chance to take the exit door. “Do you also want to leave?” he asks them - and I think what he was meaning was something like “You can leave too if that’s what you want. I shan’t hold it against you.” It’s Peter who speaks up of course, but he speaks for them all: “Where else can we go? To whom else can we turn? You speak the words of life.”
People were beginning to walk out on Jesus because he was saying things that sounded a bit weird, and they were beginning to think that this might not be such an easy ride. You have to aim pretty high to keep up with this man: people prefer to be comfortable, and this was starting to look as if it might not be. The Twelve must have been as shocked as everyone else at some of the things Jesus said - what did he mean by it? But they stayed with him because, as Peter sort of said, “We may not understand everything you’re saying to us, but we know what you are, we know you’re God’s man.”
By the time Paul wrote his Letter to the Ephesians he knew very well that to follow Jesus wasn’t an easy road. He’d had his own share of beatings and imprisonment, and he speaks of himself as “an ambassador in chains.” He begins the last chapter of his letter to the Ephesians by telling them to find their strength in the Lord, and follows that with those amazing words that compare what they’ll need for the fight with the armour worn by a Roman soldier. And that’s a good comparison: there were no soldiers in the ancient world better prepared and protected than the army of Rome.
I’ll say a bit more about that armour in a moment, but first a question I ask myself on a regular basis: how committed am I, really? How far would I go, how much would I face, to follow my Lord? How good am I at dealing with the stuff that tempts me away from where I should be and what I should be doing? Don’t I drift from the path and lose my way all too easily, again and again? And does Jesus even want me, after all this time, and after all this failure?
It seems to me that the devil’s very good at persuading people they’re not good enough, they can never be good enough, so they may as well give up trying. Even so-called saints have feet of clay really, he tells us. So give up, and enjoy yourselves instead.
Paul came across plenty of human opposition in his ministry, but that isn’t what he’s writing about in the words we’ve heard to the Ephesians. He speaks to them about the wiles, the stratagems of the devil, saying “Our struggle is not against human foes, but against the elemental forces of the universe.” Just as mine is today, and yours.
One of the reasons why the Roman army was so effective was that they had excellent defensive armour. The great shield especially, when raised up and employed properly left pretty much no way through for the enemy. Use the armour God gives you, says Paul to the Ephesians, and he says it to us too.
What does this armour consist of? Paul talks about truth, integrity, peace: in other words, not just looking good on the outside, but being true at heart; and then he speaks of the great shield, which is the shield of faith, along with the helmet of salvation. Those disciples who faded away when it looked as though the going might get tough lacked faith; unlike the Twelve, they couldn’t bring themselves to be sure of Jesus. And we have the helmet of salvation. The conflict may continue, but the decisive battle has already been won. And though we may sometimes fail, and stray, and let our Lord down - as did every one of the Twelve at some point - we’re not excluded by that, that doesn’t mean we’re not good enough. Jesus has made us good enough, he has given us a share in his victory. Through him we have access to the Father, despite ourselves. In him we find a love that will never let us down; the journey we make with him, though sometimes the road may be hard, is our journey home. As Jesus says in John chapter 14: “In my Father’s house there are many rooms. I am going to prepare a place for you.”
With this promise in mind, I can resist the temptation to give up and to stop believing. Or I should be able to. In fact I’m not always good at keeping my armour up to scratch, and sometimes that armour doesn’t work as well as it should. We keep our armour in good trim by coming regularly to our Lord’s table, and between those times by being disciplined in our praying, our reading of the Bible, and the way we seek Jesus out and choose to spend time with him. We need to do this, just as the Roman soldier needed to work hard on his armour to keep it up to scratch. If he didn’t, he’d be a weak link in the wall of shields that presented such an impregnable defence against any opposing force.
“Seven days without prayer make one weak (w-e-A-k).” I recall seeing that on a church notice board, and it’s right. Paul tells the Ephesians to “constantly ask God’s help in prayer, and pray always in the power of the Spirit.” And to be watchful, and attentive, for what we face is rarely a full-on attack, it’s more subtle than that, more persuasive, cleverer. So we need to be on our guard.
Finally, Paul adds to all this defensive armour the one weapon he talks about, which is the sword: the sword the Spirit gives you, he says, which is the word of God. So is this a soldier taking cover and cowering behind his shield? No it’s not: Paul reminds us that we’ve a job to do and a word to speak, and that God has sent his Spirit to help us do it. The Roman soldier knew when to take cover and when to break out of cover, and take the initiative. And though sometimes all I can do is to hold on, faith requires me to do more: to live for Jesus, to work for Jesus, to strive for Jesus. So I pray: Grant me shelter and refuge when I need it, Lord, but then show me how I can be an active witness to your love - and may your Church be a bright light in every dark place, shining your love into needy and broken lives. Amen.
Monday, 3 August 2015
Retreat: first morning
Another first draft . . .
As I look out through the leaded panes
of the seaward window of my room or, maybe, cell,
a pale sun filters through the leafless branches
of the clifftop trees; early morning, low tide,
with oystercatchers and turnstones prospecting the shoreline,
the sudden black and white of their flurried wings.
Sheltered by gothic walls, I am where I need to be,
though not entirely from choice. I am here
because I will have things to do, and need to be prepared,
or maybe because God has things to do with me,
in the interplay of trying and being tried
to which we give the title ‘retreat’.
This is my week’s shelter from the world, yet not a place to hide
nor any admission of defeat. I am here
to confront in me what needs to change
and to confirm what needs to grow;
I am here because it is right to be here,
where the tide runs softly over the pebbled sand,
while the sun lifts over the winter trees
to lose itself as a smear of brightness in the soft clouding
of this new day. I am here because of the love
that has claimed me and will not leave me, here
to slow things down to the tempo of my own heart,
and to align myself to the peaceful rhythm
of the praise and prayer of this house.
And I am here because of where I shall be next,
to know here the close-breathing presence of my Lord
that I may know him too where he will be, there.
The chapel bell rings softly, half-hidden behind the calls
of curlew and gull; on this silvered morning
my healing time begins.
As I look out through the leaded panes
of the seaward window of my room or, maybe, cell,
a pale sun filters through the leafless branches
of the clifftop trees; early morning, low tide,
with oystercatchers and turnstones prospecting the shoreline,
the sudden black and white of their flurried wings.
Sheltered by gothic walls, I am where I need to be,
though not entirely from choice. I am here
because I will have things to do, and need to be prepared,
or maybe because God has things to do with me,
in the interplay of trying and being tried
to which we give the title ‘retreat’.
This is my week’s shelter from the world, yet not a place to hide
nor any admission of defeat. I am here
to confront in me what needs to change
and to confirm what needs to grow;
I am here because it is right to be here,
where the tide runs softly over the pebbled sand,
while the sun lifts over the winter trees
to lose itself as a smear of brightness in the soft clouding
of this new day. I am here because of the love
that has claimed me and will not leave me, here
to slow things down to the tempo of my own heart,
and to align myself to the peaceful rhythm
of the praise and prayer of this house.
And I am here because of where I shall be next,
to know here the close-breathing presence of my Lord
that I may know him too where he will be, there.
The chapel bell rings softly, half-hidden behind the calls
of curlew and gull; on this silvered morning
my healing time begins.
Saturday, 1 August 2015
A Sermon for Tomorrow
Preached on the set readings, viz Exodus 16.2-4, 9-26; Ephesians 4.1-16, John 6.24-35
“Are we nearly there yet?” Yes, it’s the summer holidays, and dads and mums up and down the country will be listening to variations on that question from the back seat as they head off on holiday or out for a day trip. I remember it well from when my kids were young; we used to try and head it off with I-spy games, spotting interesting pub signs, or things like first to see three mums pushing push chairs. These days kids can listen to their ipods, watch Peppa Pig on video, or play computer games on their tablets or smart phones. Not that it seems to make much difference - it’s still boring in the back of the car, and it still takes just as long.
At least we usually made sure we brought enough to eat with us. Not always - once we left a fully packed cool box with sandwiches and sausage rolls and cakes back at home. It wasn’t very cool or fresh inside that box two weeks later when we got back. But mostly we could shut the kids up for a bit with a bun or a packet of crisps, even if it did sometimes leave us with a major job clearing out the car once we’d got to where we were going. In our Old Testament reading the people of Israel had run out of food. They were miserable and hungry, and the promised land was still only a promise - and they were having to walk there. Moses and Aaron were beginning to get a little worried at the rebellious mood of the people.
But the Lord was on the case, to send quails and also manna, and at the same time to test the people and make sure they recognised who was giving them this food, food to be accepted as a gift and therefore harvested and used daily as the Lord commanded, not hoarded or treated as though it were the fruit of their own labours. This is true, isn’t it, of any present, that the giver is honoured in the way we use the gift. And that’s certainly true of God’s gifts to us - and he has greater gifts to bestow than the manna that saved his people in the wilderness.
Manna was a temporary fix, no more. It was given for as long as the people needed it. But it got them through, and it was long remembered. “Our forefathers were given manna in the wilderness,” said the people to Jesus. “That’s what Moses did for them. What are you going to give us? What can you give us, that’s as good as that?” “You’re mistaken if you think the manna came from Moses,” Jesus tells them. “It came from God, and now God has new bread to give you, bread that will last forever, the true bread of life.” “Give us this bread,” the people plead, “give it to us now and always!”
That sounds like a great prayer to make, but in John’s Gospel people are often found thinking in purely physical terms when Jesus is speaking of the spirit. People have just been fed in the wilderness, five thousand men plus whoever else was with them, women and children: enough for all and twelve baskets left over. Now the crowd want more of the same. But what Jesus is really offering is a different kind of bread altogether. He offers himself, a spiritual bread for the life and health of the world. A gift to be received and used in a way that truly honours the giver.
Before I think a little more about that, let me spend a moment or two reflecting on the verses we heard from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians - Paul’s writing there about receiving and using God’s gifts in a way that truly honours the giver. He says, “Each of us has been given some special gift, some special share in the bounty of Christ.” Our gifts are different and complementary; they enable us to build one another up; the gifts we’re given are facets of the nature of Christ, so when we use them as we should we ourselves become in some way Christ-like, and the whole body becomes all the more fully what we are called to be - the body of Christ - as we exercise these gifts in supporting one another and serving the community around us.
Paul speaks about “attaining the unity inherent in our faith” and “being measured by nothing less than the full stature of Christ.” If we use well the gifts we’re given our fellowship will be enhanced and enriched, and made (in the modern jargon) fit for purpose. That’s promise and challenge for the Church, just as the manna in the wilderness was both promise and challenge to the Israelites under Moses. Promise and gift given freely, the outworking of God’s love, not earned or merited - given because God claims us as his own. Challenge, because to use well what God gives us requires discipline and obedience; his gifts must be used according to the mind of the giver. As the body of Christ is built (quote) “the whole frame grows through the proper functioning of each part, and builds itself up in love.”
The people had asked Jesus “What must we do to merit God’s gifts and favour?” Jesus replied that the work God requires is simply this: that they believe in the one God has sent. That doesn’t sound too hard; to believe in something shouldn’t take too much effort, surely? Well, believing in something might not, but to believe in someone does, if we’re serious about it. Believing in something is an academic exercise. Believing in someone brings you into relationship with them.
Many people today speak negatively about the impact of religion on the world, and I’m not surprised. Far too often religion - even some versions of the Christian faith - present themselves in ways that are closed and rigid and at least potentially harmful, at times openly destructive. Such religion is more about believing things than it is about believing in the God who calls us into relationship with him. A comment I read this week about the sad shooting of Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe made the point that huge harm is done when we start thinking that one life is worth less than another one. The way is open to exploitation and abuse.
If that applies to the way in which we treat wild creatures (or some of us do), it’s also about the way we dehumanise those among our brothers and sisters who are in our way or not like us in looks or wealth or politics. Or religion. Religion can be a powerful dehumanising force, and we’ve only to look at the appalling violence in Iraq or Syria to realise that. This is not true religion. It’s false and even godless, I’d dare to say. To borrow some words written by the late Terry Pratchett, so-called religious wars are caused by “mad, manipulative and power-hungry men who cloak their ambition in God.” But not the true God; a god they’ve manufactured and distorted so as to give credence to their ambitions.
Genuinely godly faith will seek always to include, not exclude; to encourage, not oppose; to share and to feed, not grab and hoard or neglect. It’s a risky way to live, but it’s the life Jesus shows us. Jesus says, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” It’s not hard to love the crowd you’re with, people who think the way you think. The risky thing is that there are no limits to the love Jesus loves us with; his is the love of the father watching for his prodigal son who has walked out on him; his is the love which prays “Forgive them” from the agony of the cross. This is costly love, but who can deny that our world needs it so very much?
All that’s needed of us is that we believe in the one whom God has sent; but what does it mean? We need to receive and use the gifts God brings us, knowing where they’re from; and we need to honour the giver. We love because we are ourselves most wonderfully loved. And we need to understand that the skills and talents with which we’re gifted come with a duty, a responsibility - to play our full part in building up the whole fellowship, the whole body of Christ where we are.
Remember the question with which I began this address? “Are we nearly there yet?” Thinking back to when I was the child in the back seat of the car, I remember how frustrating it was that it took so long to get from A (boring old home) to B (exciting holiday place with sea and sand); stuck in the back seat there was nothing I could do to make the journey happen more quickly. Not much could be done from the front, either, since we were probably stuck in a queue of traffic.
Let’s apply that same question to our Christian journey. Are we nearly there yet? To a degree the answer’s yes, for every Sunday we celebrate God’s love triumphant over sin and death; our Lord is risen from the dead and in him we are already citizens of heaven. But of course our own individual journeys continue, and sometimes it’s boring, sometimes the road ahead is dark or tough going, and sometimes we’re stuck in a traffic jam. But our God resources us for the journey and travels with us; we know we’re loved by him, and that in love we’re gifted by him. The love in which we’re known and treasured is a love that’s cross-shaped, that’s borne our sins into that great conflict with death and has triumphed. So as our own life journeys continue our task is to travel with hope and joy and thanksgiving - proving our faith in our use of God’s gifts and in the risks we take with love.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Yes, it’s the summer holidays, and dads and mums up and down the country will be listening to variations on that question from the back seat as they head off on holiday or out for a day trip. I remember it well from when my kids were young; we used to try and head it off with I-spy games, spotting interesting pub signs, or things like first to see three mums pushing push chairs. These days kids can listen to their ipods, watch Peppa Pig on video, or play computer games on their tablets or smart phones. Not that it seems to make much difference - it’s still boring in the back of the car, and it still takes just as long.
At least we usually made sure we brought enough to eat with us. Not always - once we left a fully packed cool box with sandwiches and sausage rolls and cakes back at home. It wasn’t very cool or fresh inside that box two weeks later when we got back. But mostly we could shut the kids up for a bit with a bun or a packet of crisps, even if it did sometimes leave us with a major job clearing out the car once we’d got to where we were going. In our Old Testament reading the people of Israel had run out of food. They were miserable and hungry, and the promised land was still only a promise - and they were having to walk there. Moses and Aaron were beginning to get a little worried at the rebellious mood of the people.
But the Lord was on the case, to send quails and also manna, and at the same time to test the people and make sure they recognised who was giving them this food, food to be accepted as a gift and therefore harvested and used daily as the Lord commanded, not hoarded or treated as though it were the fruit of their own labours. This is true, isn’t it, of any present, that the giver is honoured in the way we use the gift. And that’s certainly true of God’s gifts to us - and he has greater gifts to bestow than the manna that saved his people in the wilderness.
Manna was a temporary fix, no more. It was given for as long as the people needed it. But it got them through, and it was long remembered. “Our forefathers were given manna in the wilderness,” said the people to Jesus. “That’s what Moses did for them. What are you going to give us? What can you give us, that’s as good as that?” “You’re mistaken if you think the manna came from Moses,” Jesus tells them. “It came from God, and now God has new bread to give you, bread that will last forever, the true bread of life.” “Give us this bread,” the people plead, “give it to us now and always!”
That sounds like a great prayer to make, but in John’s Gospel people are often found thinking in purely physical terms when Jesus is speaking of the spirit. People have just been fed in the wilderness, five thousand men plus whoever else was with them, women and children: enough for all and twelve baskets left over. Now the crowd want more of the same. But what Jesus is really offering is a different kind of bread altogether. He offers himself, a spiritual bread for the life and health of the world. A gift to be received and used in a way that truly honours the giver.
Before I think a little more about that, let me spend a moment or two reflecting on the verses we heard from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians - Paul’s writing there about receiving and using God’s gifts in a way that truly honours the giver. He says, “Each of us has been given some special gift, some special share in the bounty of Christ.” Our gifts are different and complementary; they enable us to build one another up; the gifts we’re given are facets of the nature of Christ, so when we use them as we should we ourselves become in some way Christ-like, and the whole body becomes all the more fully what we are called to be - the body of Christ - as we exercise these gifts in supporting one another and serving the community around us.
Paul speaks about “attaining the unity inherent in our faith” and “being measured by nothing less than the full stature of Christ.” If we use well the gifts we’re given our fellowship will be enhanced and enriched, and made (in the modern jargon) fit for purpose. That’s promise and challenge for the Church, just as the manna in the wilderness was both promise and challenge to the Israelites under Moses. Promise and gift given freely, the outworking of God’s love, not earned or merited - given because God claims us as his own. Challenge, because to use well what God gives us requires discipline and obedience; his gifts must be used according to the mind of the giver. As the body of Christ is built (quote) “the whole frame grows through the proper functioning of each part, and builds itself up in love.”
The people had asked Jesus “What must we do to merit God’s gifts and favour?” Jesus replied that the work God requires is simply this: that they believe in the one God has sent. That doesn’t sound too hard; to believe in something shouldn’t take too much effort, surely? Well, believing in something might not, but to believe in someone does, if we’re serious about it. Believing in something is an academic exercise. Believing in someone brings you into relationship with them.
Many people today speak negatively about the impact of religion on the world, and I’m not surprised. Far too often religion - even some versions of the Christian faith - present themselves in ways that are closed and rigid and at least potentially harmful, at times openly destructive. Such religion is more about believing things than it is about believing in the God who calls us into relationship with him. A comment I read this week about the sad shooting of Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe made the point that huge harm is done when we start thinking that one life is worth less than another one. The way is open to exploitation and abuse.
If that applies to the way in which we treat wild creatures (or some of us do), it’s also about the way we dehumanise those among our brothers and sisters who are in our way or not like us in looks or wealth or politics. Or religion. Religion can be a powerful dehumanising force, and we’ve only to look at the appalling violence in Iraq or Syria to realise that. This is not true religion. It’s false and even godless, I’d dare to say. To borrow some words written by the late Terry Pratchett, so-called religious wars are caused by “mad, manipulative and power-hungry men who cloak their ambition in God.” But not the true God; a god they’ve manufactured and distorted so as to give credence to their ambitions.
Genuinely godly faith will seek always to include, not exclude; to encourage, not oppose; to share and to feed, not grab and hoard or neglect. It’s a risky way to live, but it’s the life Jesus shows us. Jesus says, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” It’s not hard to love the crowd you’re with, people who think the way you think. The risky thing is that there are no limits to the love Jesus loves us with; his is the love of the father watching for his prodigal son who has walked out on him; his is the love which prays “Forgive them” from the agony of the cross. This is costly love, but who can deny that our world needs it so very much?
All that’s needed of us is that we believe in the one whom God has sent; but what does it mean? We need to receive and use the gifts God brings us, knowing where they’re from; and we need to honour the giver. We love because we are ourselves most wonderfully loved. And we need to understand that the skills and talents with which we’re gifted come with a duty, a responsibility - to play our full part in building up the whole fellowship, the whole body of Christ where we are.
Remember the question with which I began this address? “Are we nearly there yet?” Thinking back to when I was the child in the back seat of the car, I remember how frustrating it was that it took so long to get from A (boring old home) to B (exciting holiday place with sea and sand); stuck in the back seat there was nothing I could do to make the journey happen more quickly. Not much could be done from the front, either, since we were probably stuck in a queue of traffic.
Let’s apply that same question to our Christian journey. Are we nearly there yet? To a degree the answer’s yes, for every Sunday we celebrate God’s love triumphant over sin and death; our Lord is risen from the dead and in him we are already citizens of heaven. But of course our own individual journeys continue, and sometimes it’s boring, sometimes the road ahead is dark or tough going, and sometimes we’re stuck in a traffic jam. But our God resources us for the journey and travels with us; we know we’re loved by him, and that in love we’re gifted by him. The love in which we’re known and treasured is a love that’s cross-shaped, that’s borne our sins into that great conflict with death and has triumphed. So as our own life journeys continue our task is to travel with hope and joy and thanksgiving - proving our faith in our use of God’s gifts and in the risks we take with love.
Friday, 31 July 2015
Payback
Another attempt at an original poem . . .
He supposed it must be payback,
for too much time spent enjoying
the fruits for which others had laboured.
For years, he knew, he had been living on borrowed
time.
Shortening days: he began to be aware of the
silence
behind those forced and formulaic smiles.
Kind words and expressions of sympathy, but
meanwhile
doors were being closed that used to be open.
This had been more than a little disturbing:
the sudden silences when he entered each room,
the stealthy undermining of security and status,
his removal from the loop, the world having moved
on.
He had been for so long the point of reference,
the one always consulted, courted for his opinion;
these colder days he found himself excluded, even,
from the briefest glance at the plan,
while, outside, leaves had begun to fall from the
trees
and the first frost of autumn was forecast,
along with a blue moon and its accompanying madness
to go with him into exile.
Thursday, 30 July 2015
Sometimes there's just nothing to say . . .
. . . so here's a picture instead. This is where I'd like to be, but for the present Ann and I have to be homebirds. We took this picture a few years ago while watching bee-eaters and woodchats on the island of Lesbos.
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Natural Atheist
The first draft of a poem written today . . .
I am, I think, a natural atheist;
I can find both sense and a sort of strange
comfort
in the irrationality of my accidental life,
sprung as I am from blackness into a sharp and
brief
splash of light, my self alive, before the
darkness claims me
once again. That’s how it is
and how it must be, that’s all that can be proved;
and surely it’s enough, enough to contend with.
So leave me like this I say, I can do it. How is
it then
that I keep coming across God,
not the one who hides in the pages of holy books
or the doctrines formulated by holy conclaves; no,
God just there, round odd corners of my life? And
why is it
that I sense this God is wanting something from
me?
Not just an image or idea - I could cope with
that,
just airbrush God out of the picture,
just keep the stuff I can make sense of, or else
feel there is no need to - no, this is God
bumping into me, knocking me off balance,
changing my direction of travel,
challenging me into belief, into faith. I don’t
need you,
I tell God, I can do this on my own; trouble is,
God insists on loving me, that’s the sense I have,
and so I find myself thinking
that maybe love itself makes too much sense,
and the light I live in is worth too much,
for the black to be all that’s next (or all that
was before).
It seems wrong that nothing should have the last
word.
Of course, I recognise that one of my major
failings
is that I could never be a fundamentalist
anything.
For all that,
I am, I think, a natural atheist,
or I would be, perhaps,
if only God would let me.
Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Horsebridge
My second poem, written over the past couple of days, addresses a memory from this time of the year but some fifteen or more years ago :-
It’s a busy day down there
as I peer over the bridge wall.
Along the lane I’ve enjoyed the blue sky,
the sun in my face as I walked, screwing my eyes,
the swoop of the swallows, chant of yellowhammers.
Now I’m leaning on these old stones
to gaze down into another world.
Fringed by ferns and loosestrife and hemp agrimony
the surface of the idling stream,
deep pooled and slow-moving here, is
pulsating with gold and silver whirligigs,
each one a splinter of sunlight unexpectedly
mobile,
a dot of raw energy spinning around.
Above them bright damselflies float and whisper,
meeting and mating, delighting in the mix of sun
and shade.
Now and again they settle, straight-winged,
just for a moment on some leaf or frond,
till perhaps a shadow crosses
to make them lift away. Today’s bright sun
has inspired all this busy motion. None of it was
here
when yesterday I made the same walk under cloud, but
now
it’s a busy day down there,
and everything seems to be dancing.
Meanwhile, down below where the dark water drifts,
it is business as usual at a deeper level.
There are other creatures moving, unseen by me,
nor, I suppose, by those sun-struck whirligigs and
damsels:
the stream’s hunters continue to ply their
stealthy trade
today as yesterday, and as every day.
Their community of violence does not reference the
sun;
they do not seek or need the light.
Sonnet
I seem to have been doing quite a few poetic things recently, so today I'm posting two poems. Here is the first of them; someone said to me not long ago, "You can't really call yourself a poet unless you can write a half-decent sonnet." Well, I don't know whether this passes muster poetically, but it's my attempt, and it's from the heart - poetically, in Miltonian style and using a classic Italian rhyme structure, theologically reflecting, as so much I write, the thinking of Mother Julian of Norwich.
When,
looking back, I trace the steps I made,
my
wilfulness, my sin, my empty pride,
it shames
me, Lord: if only I could hide
in
some shade place until those memories fade,
or thou
forget the false prayers I have prayed,
the
dark distortion of the self inside;
my
hopeful dreams, long left untended, died,
so
cold the stone which on my heart is laid.
And
yet I hear my Lord say, “Child, I know
how
chill your heart, how far and lost you feel,
how
mired you are in guilt and fearfulness;
come
close, and see where living waters flow,
come,
touch the cross, which is my true love’s seal:
I
love you now, and never loved you less.”
Monday, 13 July 2015
Pests
Our garden fruit cage is delivering well, and I brought in a decent bowlful of raspberries last evening. Sadly, though, while we've got a few gooseberries to bring in, the bush itself has been almost completely denuded of leaves. We've been attacked by sawfly larvae, which can pretty well strip a bush in no time, leaving only a few of the outer leaves. I tend to have a quietist approach to garden pests, choosing to share some of what I grow with them, rather than blast them with sprays and stuff, but of course the pests themselves don't necessarily play ball!
Sawflies can have several generations in one year, so it's a problem that doesn't quickly go away if not sorted. They also take redcurrant leaves, but for some reason don't seem to like blackcurrant much, so our blackcurrant bush is still all right. It may be the strong smell of blackcurrants that puts them off.
So, what to do? I'm not inclined to use much in the way of chemicals, so I need to find a natural remedy or else just sit it out and hope for the best. One suggestion I came across involved making an infusion of foxglove leaves and spraying; trouble is, that needed to be done as soon as the caterpillars appeared. Far too late now! Apparently growing garlic nearby can be enough, so there's something to try next year; putting in some wild garlic might be enough, and it could look quite attractive when the flowers are out. Blue and great tits will readily take sawfly larvae, and we've plenty of them - maybe a feeder close to the gooseberries will make sure they're in the right place at the right time. Pyrethrum dust is also effective.
Sawflies can have several generations in one year, so it's a problem that doesn't quickly go away if not sorted. They also take redcurrant leaves, but for some reason don't seem to like blackcurrant much, so our blackcurrant bush is still all right. It may be the strong smell of blackcurrants that puts them off.
So, what to do? I'm not inclined to use much in the way of chemicals, so I need to find a natural remedy or else just sit it out and hope for the best. One suggestion I came across involved making an infusion of foxglove leaves and spraying; trouble is, that needed to be done as soon as the caterpillars appeared. Far too late now! Apparently growing garlic nearby can be enough, so there's something to try next year; putting in some wild garlic might be enough, and it could look quite attractive when the flowers are out. Blue and great tits will readily take sawfly larvae, and we've plenty of them - maybe a feeder close to the gooseberries will make sure they're in the right place at the right time. Pyrethrum dust is also effective.
Tuesday, 7 July 2015
Kite
Our garden birds list gained a new tick today when a red kite came drifting directly over us this morning, dipping down quite low over our front garden. We were able to get some great views - no time to grab my camera though . . . we were just about to set off for the Osprey Project, and everything was packed and inside the car already. Red kites are no longer an unfamiliar sight in the Welshpool area, but I hadn't seen one from our garden before. We get buzzards regularly - always very high up, though - and once spotted a peregrine, again very high overhead.
Red kites were very much part of the urban scene centuries ago. They are predominantly carrion feeders, and towns then were I suppose scruffier places, with plenty of good meals available for kites. In the south-east of England kites are settling well into the suburbs, I understand, as they regularly come to gardens when people offer suitable food. I have no intention to add minced steak to our bird table, though the kite is welcome to come and take the odd pigeon, if he wishes.
Meanwhile, we have very large numbers of goldfinches, alternating between bursts of bubbling song and what sound rather like harsh strings of swear words when they argue, as they do frequently. Many of the goldfinches are juveniles, a fairly plain sandy brown but with the distinctive gold in the wing. The juveniles are often still pestering adults for food, but generally just get a string of goldfinch swear words and an aggressive thrust-forward beak in response.
Our Japanese cherry, which blossomed prolifically this year, is now forming masses of small red fruits, which are popular with blackbirds. Again, there are arguments, and often parents fending off aggressively begging offspring. They have to learn that it doesn't grow on trees - er - well, it does grow on trees, but you still have to get it yourself!
Red kites were very much part of the urban scene centuries ago. They are predominantly carrion feeders, and towns then were I suppose scruffier places, with plenty of good meals available for kites. In the south-east of England kites are settling well into the suburbs, I understand, as they regularly come to gardens when people offer suitable food. I have no intention to add minced steak to our bird table, though the kite is welcome to come and take the odd pigeon, if he wishes.
Meanwhile, we have very large numbers of goldfinches, alternating between bursts of bubbling song and what sound rather like harsh strings of swear words when they argue, as they do frequently. Many of the goldfinches are juveniles, a fairly plain sandy brown but with the distinctive gold in the wing. The juveniles are often still pestering adults for food, but generally just get a string of goldfinch swear words and an aggressive thrust-forward beak in response.
Our Japanese cherry, which blossomed prolifically this year, is now forming masses of small red fruits, which are popular with blackbirds. Again, there are arguments, and often parents fending off aggressively begging offspring. They have to learn that it doesn't grow on trees - er - well, it does grow on trees, but you still have to get it yourself!
Monday, 6 July 2015
Rubbish - my latest "Nature Notes" article
Yes!
This month I’m talking rubbish; and I think I’m fairly well qualified to do
this, as I volunteer as a “litter champion” and go out several times each month
to pick litter and other rubbish off my local streets and footpaths. Sadly,
there’s often an awful lot to collect. The reason for mentioning it here is
that rubbish is not only unsightly, it can often cause harm to wildlife (and
also to pets, farm stock and unwary people, too). Much of the litter we
carelessly discard fails to rot away or biodegrade, and therefore hangs about
for a very long time. And it doesn’t just sit there; drinks cans can disappear
into long grass, only to be mangled up when the roadside verges are mowed, or
when a farmer mows down thistles or nettles in a grazed meadow, leaving sharp
shards of metal to cause injury. Broken glass is an even more obvious hazard,
and there’s a lot of it about, I find, as I do my litter-picking rounds.
Cigarette smokers, sadly, are in my experience major contributors to urban and rural litter. Cigarette stubs are biodegradable, it’s true, but they still look very ugly. A friend of mine who can’t break the habit always carries a tin to put his stubs into. We know tobacco is a potential health risk, and we use nicotine as a pesticide, so it surely can’t be good to be scattering it about the place!
A number of TV documentaries recently have focused on the growing problem of plastic debris in the oceans; even thousands of miles from inhabited land, plastic bags and bottles sail our seas. They just don’t degrade! What’s worse is that floating plastic bags, whether in the sea or in a local pond or river, can look enough like appetising food to tempt creatures into swallowing them. Even though they may not cause direct harm, they remain inside and severely limit the ability of the animal to digest enough real food to sustain itself. Discarded fishing-lines, hooks and weights pose a danger to water birds, and can kill. Fly-tipped rubbish, and from time to time run-offs from official landfill sites, can cause pollution of water-courses. Please, wherever you go, take your litter home with you or use a bin (there are plenty about, for example 108 just in Welshpool, I’m told). And in general, the less we dump, even legally, the better: re-use or recycle as much as you can.
Sunday, 5 July 2015
Skylarks
I led a service high on the border hills this evening, at the stone circle known as Mitchell's Fold, above the village of Priestweston. The song of skylarks was a constant throughout, and a poignant reminder of a sound absent from much lowland farmland these days, which would have been always present in my childhood days. Skylarks have not coped well with increasingly intensive agriculture; while they are by no means the only bird of agricultural land to have declined markedly, they are among the most missed, for their wonderful song from the ascending wing, hailed in poetry and prose.
Why have they declined? They are ground-nesting birds, and at a guess one problem could be that pairs will be attracted to exactly the sort of level green field that will in fact be disturbed by machinery and cut as a growing crop. So their nesting attempts fail. I did still hear skylarks singing when we lived at Llandrinio, perhaps because there was quite a lot of permanent pasture within the farmland there, but even then rarely more than one singing bird at a time. Up above Priestweston there were at least two birds singing; on a recent walk on the Stiperstones there were more than that. It was almost like being a child again.
One of my favourite flowers was liberally scattered over the site at Mitchell's Fold, and that's the little acid-tolerant potentilla known as tormentil. While it has the typical five-fold (cinquefoil) leaf of many potentillas, it is unusual in that the flowers have not five petals, but four.
Why have they declined? They are ground-nesting birds, and at a guess one problem could be that pairs will be attracted to exactly the sort of level green field that will in fact be disturbed by machinery and cut as a growing crop. So their nesting attempts fail. I did still hear skylarks singing when we lived at Llandrinio, perhaps because there was quite a lot of permanent pasture within the farmland there, but even then rarely more than one singing bird at a time. Up above Priestweston there were at least two birds singing; on a recent walk on the Stiperstones there were more than that. It was almost like being a child again.
One of my favourite flowers was liberally scattered over the site at Mitchell's Fold, and that's the little acid-tolerant potentilla known as tormentil. While it has the typical five-fold (cinquefoil) leaf of many potentillas, it is unusual in that the flowers have not five petals, but four.
Saturday, 4 July 2015
More on Sparrowhawks
I was told this morning of a kingfisher kill locally, almost certainly by a sparrowhawk, which is to my mind remarkable and can't happen often, both birds being such able and agile fliers. I've also had a number of conversations with people who are very negative towards sparrowhawks, which I am tempted towards when I think of the kingfisher, but am not in general.
Are there more sparrowhawks? Yes, they've certainly increased over recent years. Do they kill garden birds? Yes, of course, and feeding stations provide a better opportunity than the hawk will find in most other locations. Birds are gathering there in good numbers and very regularly, and sometimes the placing of feeders allows plenty of cover and opportunity for surprise. We've tried to ensure that's not the case in our garden, but it's quite a small patch. But, third question - is that a problem? No, I feel.
We are maintaining an artificially high population of many garden species due to regular feeding, and therefore we're bound to boost the population of sparrowhawks. However, this is a classic case where predator and prey species are kept pretty much in balance, with the numbers of sparrowhawks fluctuating in a way that matches the charts for prey species, with the curve on the predator graph a little behind that of the prey species. If sparrowhawks kill too many prey species, then prey becomes rarer, and there is a consequent decline in sparrowhawk numbers.
The same principle of balance does not apply, though, to certain other species, with magpies being one I'd particularly note. I like magpies, and they regularly visit our garden without doing too much harm. They do, however, predate on small birds, and in particular they take eggs and nestlings. If the garden population of small birds is artificially high (which it is), many nests may be built in not very suitable locations (that will also be the case if gardens are too tidy and bushes and hedges too well-trimmed). If the gardener can see the nest, so can the magpie, or, for that matter, next door's cat.
I think that a major factor in maintaining a higher-than-it-should-be population of magpies is roadkill. Crows in general cash in on roadkill, but I rarely see a dead creature on the road without magpies around. This must have a seriously beneficial impact on magpie numbers, and means that those numbers are not closely correlated with those of small garden birds in the way that sparrowhawk statistics are.
Are there more sparrowhawks? Yes, they've certainly increased over recent years. Do they kill garden birds? Yes, of course, and feeding stations provide a better opportunity than the hawk will find in most other locations. Birds are gathering there in good numbers and very regularly, and sometimes the placing of feeders allows plenty of cover and opportunity for surprise. We've tried to ensure that's not the case in our garden, but it's quite a small patch. But, third question - is that a problem? No, I feel.
We are maintaining an artificially high population of many garden species due to regular feeding, and therefore we're bound to boost the population of sparrowhawks. However, this is a classic case where predator and prey species are kept pretty much in balance, with the numbers of sparrowhawks fluctuating in a way that matches the charts for prey species, with the curve on the predator graph a little behind that of the prey species. If sparrowhawks kill too many prey species, then prey becomes rarer, and there is a consequent decline in sparrowhawk numbers.
The same principle of balance does not apply, though, to certain other species, with magpies being one I'd particularly note. I like magpies, and they regularly visit our garden without doing too much harm. They do, however, predate on small birds, and in particular they take eggs and nestlings. If the garden population of small birds is artificially high (which it is), many nests may be built in not very suitable locations (that will also be the case if gardens are too tidy and bushes and hedges too well-trimmed). If the gardener can see the nest, so can the magpie, or, for that matter, next door's cat.
I think that a major factor in maintaining a higher-than-it-should-be population of magpies is roadkill. Crows in general cash in on roadkill, but I rarely see a dead creature on the road without magpies around. This must have a seriously beneficial impact on magpie numbers, and means that those numbers are not closely correlated with those of small garden birds in the way that sparrowhawk statistics are.
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