The Naturalists

by Douglas Kidder

When you hear the lark or thrush,
Do you just turn a casual ear?
Or do you set up in a rush,
A mass of sound-recording gear?
When the songbirds stary to sing,
Do you go cuckoo in the Spring?

Do you stalk white-fronted geese
On their autumn journey south,
With not a sound to break the peace
Along the tidal river mouth,
Except the squelch and then the thud
Of falling flat in slimy mud?

Have you watched a badger sett?
Stood motionless for half the night,
And said, returning cold and wet,
When nothing ever came in sight:
"The weather wasn't bad at all!
The hail that fell was mostly small."

Have you trod the primrose path?
Are you one of those who think
That Heaven is to photograph
On native cliffs, the Cheddar pink?
Do your friends all think it plain
That you have orchids on the brain?

Some of those I've classified
Still like to work in isolation,
But most of us, by now have tried
The local trust for conservation,
Where we have a chance to mix
With lots of fellow lunatics.

We manage bits of hill and moor
Where Nature's treasures still survive,
And working parties do a chore
To help keep the things alive,
With varied tasks for those who care
To earn themselves a day's fresh air.

Up the steeply sloping side,
From which the valley can be viewed,
We chisel out some steps to guide
The nature-loving attitude,
Whose great flat feet and idle chatter
Are kept from things that really matter.

It keeps us happy just to know,
Some secret marsh will never fail
To let the caterpillars grow,
That become the swallowtail,
And still will boast a royal fern,
Where we're recycled, in our turn.