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The Recollected Dream

When midsummer rain is spearing
From storm clouds darkest grey
That provide no hint of clearing
To reveal the blue of day,
The scent from marshland grasses
Permeates each breath of air
That summons as it passes,
Winged creatures from their lair.

Then the wattled spur-winged plovers,
In their element at last,
Re-emerge from reedy covers,
Seeking out a worm repast—
And the droplets from their wattles
Drip on sheath and blade below,
And the soil horizon mottles
Where the trickling waters flow.

Soon the plovers start their calling
That more often graces night,
And the haunting notes keep falling
On a landscape spare of light
Until the torrent ceases,
Re-admitting hidden rays—
And though the spell releases,
The ghostly memory stays.

Now I wait till warm days brew it—
A thunderous downfall,
To renew the did-he-do-it
Of the plover’s plaintive call,
Carried clear and unaffected
Though the waters fairly teem,
Proving that calls recollected
Hadn’t risen from a dream.

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David Watt is a writer from Canberra, the “Bush Capital” of Australia. He has contributed regularly to Collections of Poetry and Prose by Robin Barratt. When not working for IP (Intellectual Property) Australia, he finds time to appreciate the intrinsic beauty of traditional rhyming poetry.

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17 Responses

  1. Satyananda Sarangi

    Immaculate flow!

    I don’t know why I was reminded of this John Clare poem below.

    Summer Images

    Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,
    Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;
    And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,
    A wild and giddy thing,
    And Health robust, from every care unbound,
    Come on the zephyr’s wing,
    And cheer the toiling clown.

    Happy as holiday-enjoying face,
    Loud tongued, and “merry as a marriage bell,”
    Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;
    And where the troubled dwell,
    Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares;
    And from thy sunny spell,
    They greet joy unawares.

    Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,
    And mantle laced with gems of garish light,
    Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude,
    And in the world’s despite,
    Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles;
    If haply so I might
    Win pleasure from thy smiles.

    Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers,
    In nightly revels or in city streets;
    But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears,
    That one at leisure meets
    In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn,
    Or fields, where bee-fly greets
    The ear with mellow horn.

    The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,
    Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;
    There bees go courting every flower that’s ripe,
    On baulks and sunny banks;
    And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon,
    Attempts to give God thanks
    In no discordant tune.

    The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued,
    There sings unto himself for joy’s amends,
    And drinks the honey dew of solitude.
    There Happiness attends
    With inbred Joy until the heart o’erflow,
    Of which the world’s rude friends,
    Nought heeding, nothing know.

    There the gay river, laughing as it goes,
    Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides,
    And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows
    What pleasure there abides,
    To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free:
    Spots Solitude provides
    To muse, and happy be.

    There ruminating ‘neath some pleasant bush,
    On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease,
    Where I can pillow on the yielding rush;
    And, acting as I please,
    Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie,
    Mark the wind-shaken trees,
    And cloud-betravelled sky.

    There think me how some barter joy for care,
    And waste life’s summer-health in riot rude,
    Of nature, nor of nature’s sweets aware.
    When passions vain intrude,
    These, by calm musings, softened are and still;
    And the heart’s better mood
    Feels sick of doing ill.

    There I can live, and at my leisure seek
    Joys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride—
    Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek
    Rude health, so long denied.
    Here poor Integrity can sit at ease,
    And list self-satisfied
    The song of honey-bees.

    The green lane now I traverse, where it goes
    Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies
    Rude batter’d finger post, that stooping shows
    Where the snug mystery lies;
    And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,
    Cheers up the short surprise,
    And shows a peeping town.

    I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn
    Of beauty, feeding on joy’s luscious hours;
    The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,
    Agape for honey showers;
    And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew
    Of morning’s early hours,
    Like gold yminted new.

    And mark by rustic bridge, o’er shallow stream,
    Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,
    Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;
    Who now, in gestures wild,
    Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,
    Feeling self-gratified,
    Nor fearing human thrall.

    Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,
    Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brims
    Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,
    Stretching his listless limbs;
    Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,
    Where joy’s wild impulse swims
    In one continued song.

    I love at early morn, from new mown swath,
    To see the startled frog his route pursue;
    To mark while, leaping o’er the dripping path,
    His bright sides scatter dew,
    The early lark that from its bustle flies,
    To hail his matin new;
    And watch him to the skies.

    To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,
    The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,
    With earnest heed, and tremulous intent,
    Frail brother of the morn,
    That from the tiny bent’s dew-misted leaves
    Withdraws his timid horn,
    And fearful vision weaves.

    Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,
    Wont to be first unsealing Morning’s eye,
    Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop
    Of honey on his thigh;
    To see him seek morn’s airy couch to sing,
    Until the golden sky
    Bepaint his russet wing.

    Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,
    With clapping noise to startle birds away,
    And hear him bawl to every passer by
    To know the hour of day;
    While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,
    With waking blossoms play,
    And breathe Æolian song.

    I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,
    And not the less when sudden drops of rain
    Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud,
    Threatening soft showers again,
    That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,
    Summer’s sweet breath unchain,
    And wake harmonious sounds.

    Rich music breathes in Summer’s every sound;
    And in her harmony of varied greens,
    Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around
    Much beauty intervenes,
    Filling with harmony the ear and eye;
    While o’er the mingling scenes
    Far spreads the laughing sky.

    See, how the wind-enamoured aspen leaves
    Turn up their silver lining to the sun!
    And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives,
    And makes the sheep-boy run:
    The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,
    He thinks the rain’s begun,
    And hastes to sheltering bowers.

    But now the evening curdles dank and grey,
    Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed;
    And moping owls, to close the lids of day,
    On drowsy wing proceed;
    While chickering crickets, tremulous and long,
    Light’s farewell inly heed,
    And give it parting song.

    The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes;
    The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;
    O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes
    Inquiries ever new,
    Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,
    As wanting to pursue
    His homeward path again.

    Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bells
    That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds
    By fitful starts, then musically swells
    O’er the dim stilly grounds;
    While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy
    Listens the mellow sounds,
    And hums in vacant joy.

    Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round
    His evening faggot, and with every stride
    His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound,
    Till silly sheep beside
    His path start tremulous, and once again
    Look back dissatisfied,
    And scour the dewy plain.

    How sweet the soothing calmness that distills
    O’er the heart’s every sense its opiate dews,
    In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills!
    That softens and subdues,
    With gentle Quiet’s bland and sober train,
    Which dreamy eve renews
    In many a mellow strain!

    I love to walk the fields, they are to me
    A legacy no evil can destroy;
    They, like a spell, set every rapture free
    That cheer’d me when a boy.
    Play—pastime—all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d,
    Comes like a new-born joy,
    To greet me in the field.

    For Nature’s objects ever harmonize
    With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys;
    Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,
    And meet vibrating joys
    O’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deems
    Pastimes, the Muse employs,
    Vain and obtrusive themes.

    – John Clare

    Reply
  2. Brian Yapko

    A most delightful poem, David, which beautifully captures a scene in nature and how it lives in memory. I especially like the lines: “And though the spell releases,/The ghostly memory.” Well done!

    Reply
  3. Jeremiah Johnson

    First rate nature poetry there! Reminds of Wordsworth’s “The Daffodils” – that moment of wonder you keep recalling in your mind – only that, whereas Wordsworth has to be content with the image of the memory painted on his closed eyelids – you get to relive the tangible call itself!

    Reply
  4. Jeff Eardley

    I love this David. You have painted a wonderful example of the humbling effect of one of nature’s great moments. Plovers are wonderful to behold.
    “Did he do it, “ I will be listening out for that one.

    Reply
    • David Watt

      Thank you Jeff. By coincidence, I saw a spur-winged plover again just this morning, but it remained resolutely silent in the sunlight.

      Reply
  5. Gary Borck

    Very classically poetic, David, with excellent flow and mood. I really enjoyed reading it.

    Reply
  6. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    David, I love birds, I love nature, I love the sounds and images you have conjured in this beautiful poem. Wonderful!

    Reply
    • David Watt

      Thank you so much Susan. Nature provides an endless source of poetic inspiration. Birds, in particular, with their flight, song, and beauty, have the most to offer.

      Reply
  7. Roy E. Peterson

    I love how you put into syllables the call of the plover and certainly enjoyed your wonderfully “flowing” poem!

    Reply
  8. Norma Pain

    David, I really enjoyed your poem about the Plover bird, which I was unfamiliar with. I assume the ‘did-he-do-it’ is the Plover’s call, like the chickadee’s ‘chick-a-dee-dee-dee’. Thank you for the introduction to a beautiful bird.

    Reply
    • David Watt

      Hello Norma. Yes, ‘did-he-do-it’ is the nearest we can get to imitating the plover’s distinctive call. Plovers are known to sometimes nest in dangerous locations, such as freeway median strips, and airport runways. However, they are strongly protective of their chicks.

      Reply
  9. Margaret Coats

    A beautifully detailed poem, David, and especially entrancing because you offer it as a possible dream sequence. I notice the bird’s call “did-he-do-it” and the rhyme “brew it” both sound an alternate name, “pewit.” If you or others want to see what I mean about your wealth of detail, take a look at the poem “Two Pewits” by Edward Thomas. It’s easy to find by online search, and it’s an excellent poem, but not so carefully drawn as yours.

    Reply
  10. David Watt

    Thanks, Margaret, for introducing me to “Two Pewits” by Edward Thomas, and for appreciating the detail in this piece.

    Reply

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