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  • Hugh Loxdale

Bats in Batford


There are not many bats in Batford,

Few that I have seen,

On soft summer evenings

When the Moon is apple green.


Although the Pipistrelle visits from time to time

Our little garden and smaller pond,

To flit across dark waters

Of which the amphibians are so fond.


Whilst ghost swift moths

With silvery wings, play amongst the grass,

Spectres of the sunless hours,

That endless seem to pass.


And further beyond, in Sauncey Wood,

Where anemones in May white bloom,

The long-eared owls, with studied gaze,

Hoot and sporadic boom.


Or watch in silence the forest floor

Amidst the tree-lined halls

For signs of life within the leaves,

The wood mice and common voles.



But there is alas no belfry here,

Even so, bluebells still chime

Where the chaffinch sings his cheerful song

As the Sun awakes sublime.



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