Music 367: The annoying kingfisher outside my window

Today’s posting is a piece of music for piano called “The annoying kingfisher outside my window”. In all probability the New Zealand native Kingfisher is a distinct species and hence would have a different call from kingfishers of other varieties in other places.

If you listen to this piano piece you might get some idea of the “untunefulness” of the New Zealand Kingfisher which I hear repeated ALL DAY!

This LINK HERE will take you to another page with links to my compositions of 2021 – including the new Kingfisher piece. Go there if you dare!

Tomorrow’s posting (Valentine’s) will be not a true story of love but a story of true love!

2027. It was the Rainbow gave thee birth

This is a personal reflection which could be construed as a story. Outside my window, especially in the early mornings, there are usually two or three kingfishers sitting on the fence looking down into the long grass. Suddenly one of them will swoop down, gather something, and return to the fence. Presumably they are looking for insects or lizards or worms or whatever.

I like them. At primary school we were given a poem to learn off by heart by William Henry Davies called The Kingfisher:

 It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, 
 And left thee all her lovely hues; 
 And, as her mother’s name was Tears, 
 So runs it in thy blood to choose 
 For haunts the lonely pools, and keep 
 In company with trees that weep. 

In all my years I have always wanted to find a kingfisher’s nest and never have. They peck a tunnel/cave into a dirt bank and raise a family in there. The local farmer said that at the back of his farm there is a bank where the kingfishers have their nests. And then…

Just out my window, on a clay bank, a pair of kingfishers pecked a hole! They dug a cave and presumably laid some eggs. I didn’t like to go too near lest a disturbance drove them away. Things settled down. I rarely saw the pair but could hear them calling all the time with their repetitive call. Meanwhile the bank below the hole was collecting more and more poo.

That’s all there is to see. No sight of babies, but poo poo poo.

A hole in a bank, repetitive calls, and poo poo poo. I’ve always been a bit of a romantic.

Poem 90: Blue

Kingfisher waited near fish-filled stream and flashed blue fire.
Distant thunder grumbled to a scream and flashed blue fire.

A welder melded into shape tough unbending steel;
this artist’s arc launched one steady beam and flashed blue fire.

The frantic horse’s metal shoes on stony gravel
broke the silence of the morning’s gleam and flashed blue fire.

Massed irises turned their heads towards the rising sun;
yellow, purple, peach, rose, white, and cream, and flashed blue fire.

And Bruce, patience at an end with this and that and things,
saw this growing mound of stifled dreams and flashed blue fire.

To hear the poem read click HERE!