Read Finch's 'Zen Cymru' deep into the night accompanied by the sound of vuvuzelas. Compulsive reading. Recommend it. Master of staccato wit.

   Turned off computer. Put out blue speaker-light. Contemplated writing poem beginning -
              The computer needs to be put to bed
              just like a human child.
   Never got round to finishing it. Probably good job. Too many Leffes. Woke up middle of night. Wrote this instead.

    Yes, it has been Biodiversity Week in Merthyr and Thursday night's reading by Peter Finch from his new book, plus old stuff, plus daring new poems, was the final event. It was also a poetry and music Open Mic., the first time in three years of such nights at The Imp, Pontmorlais, that we've actually had a real mic. (well, two in fact!).

   Maybe that's what put off the regulars. Terrible chest. Bad back. Low as you can get in Penywaun. No wheels. Work and workshops. They didn't show up.

   We did have a 'tidee' audience though and the Council's Biodiversity Officer must've been pleased. Jim Davies, who is a regular ( Merlot, small bottles) read poems by his friend Mike Williams, a much underrated poet , who has been suffering a lot of ill-health of late.

   I enjoyed local singer-songwriters Mike Morgan and Karen Moore and after playing a burst of the ol' blues-harp to follow the poem below, Mike (not everyone's called 'Mike' at the Open M__) asked me to join him for a jam, which was enjoyable, but not high on the Biodiversityometer.

   The previous Sunday had been 'Woodlands and Wildlife Day' at the Wildlife Garden tucked away at the outer reaches of Cyfarthfa Park. My young daughter got to watch fire made with sticks, make a bangle from reeds, be stared at by inscrutable owls and , best of all, draw pictures on slices of tree. She was very proud of these ( a bat, butterfly and dragonfly) and took the latter to school the next day.

   One person at the Open Mic. looked up 'biodiversity' on the internet :it's really a fancy word for Nature. Brings me back to the never-done computer-poem. What do computers dream about? Becoming human? Like we dream of flying or of breathing underwater? Hope they'd have more sense.

   Blackbirds have nested outside Chateau Jenkins for generations (blackbird generations, that is).We first had a nest in the rapidly-growing conifers a neighbour (possibly Owen Money) planted next to our patio. It was so low that when my two eldest were young they could get on a step-ladder and observe the eggs turning into chicks. When it was abandoned I used it as an aid to creative writing. It's still in the garage somewhere.

   A blackbird once made up a remarkable trio when those two played cello and viola together. It sat on the fence and sang. Star turn. Should've been booked for Glastonbury. Who needs U2 anyway?
 

Hey, Mr. Blackbird!

 

 

Hey, Mr Blackbird,

who said you could join in?

 

As my wife plays piano

through the Spring-wide window,

you start singing.

 

 

Hey, Mr Blackbird

who do you think you are,

some Charlie Parker

of the old oak,

some Miles Davis

of next door’s cypress?

 

 

My wife’s tune takes off

and flies across our garden.

You’re on a perch

and that’s your stage,

you reed –man, you bebopping,

claw-hopping, yellow-beaked

jammer of the hedgerows.

 

 

Hey, Mr Blackbird,

I could listen to this duet

for hours on end.

You sing the sun descending,

reply in moment’s melodies.

 

 

Hey, Mr Blackbird,

you are The Man!