There were no comic clown, close-ups of puffins to be seen at RSPB Bempton last weekend [apologies for the alliteration, it was irresistible]. The reserve is poised on the cliffs on the coast of East Yorkshire not far from Bridlington and Flamborough and although we got there early, the car park was full and scores of cheerful bird-watchers clad in green, hung around with binoculars and cameras with enormous lenses, were walking along the cliff path where seabirds were nesting below in crowded New York style tenements.
In the meadow at the side of us I could hear the skylarks singing, could see their dipping flight, and inevitably lines from Shelley’s ‘Ode to a Skylark’ came to mind. There’s no escaping that pesky English degree..
Below I could make out puffins flying above the sea surface like little busy, bumble bees, I found myself a ringside bench and took in the scene. No-one passed me by without a cheery good morning and I felt like a very lucky boy picking out the different sea birds, a sudden cloud of them appearing as a shoal of fish swam near the surface of a very blue sea.
And then the incidental pleasures of wild flowers in the grass and on the cliff-tops, my particular favourites red campion and cowslips.
All in all it was perfect. I’m waiting for inspiration. It will come. Springs always delivers in spades.
PS.
I bruised a finger and thumbnail in December, watching the blue mark settle like indelible ink under the nail, knowing gloomily that I had months to wait until the marks finally disappeared. I think the last time this happened I was seven. Now they are nearly gone and here is an early draft of a poem I first started a week or so back but. spurred on by the subject of this piece, feel it might be appropriate after all.
Bruises
The black marks beneath thumb and finger nail
Have mostly gone, winter seemed to hold them close.
But they’re edging their way out, I can feel
And see at last the fading and the loss.
It was a long obsession, a dark romance
Never have I examined my fingers more
To witness their extinction, final chance
As they a beaten army, did slowly withdraw.
Other obsessions have taken their place,
To chart the startling mortar-fire of spring
No longer concerned with that last trace
Eyes up to see what each new day can bring.
This season brings me sweet, new injuries
The sharp green bruise of fresh leaves on the trees
© James Nash 2026
