Birds – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Fervid Feathers

Under a cloudless spring sky, the afternoon sun burnished every wing and feather with a brilliant sheen. Their restless movements through sun, shade, and breeze inspired the following poem, drafted with an HB pencil on a very warm afternoon at the café.

Fervid Feathers

The burnished birds
have warily bathed enough
under spring’s hot midday sun.

Their reflective, fervid feathers
shimmer like sails
of sleek black satin.

Then, frantically, the sun-polished birds
follow the flighty dragonflies and bees
into the succoring shady trees.

Refreshing their fervid feathers
in the afternoon’s soothing
sea breeze.

As the afternoon heat fades into a soothing sea breeze, here is a charming little song to accompany today’s feathered observations, and one that may be new to some readers.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Sky High

We pass pigeons every day without a second thought — small grey silhouettes tracing quiet arcs above us. And the sky, too, becomes something we stop seeing, even though it’s always there, patient and unbought. Yet in a single moment, when wings cut across the clouds, we’re reminded that these ordinary companions are never truly ordinary. They’re right in front of our eyes, offering a shy kind of wonder we forget to claim.

Sky High

The pigeons flew by
no one said hi

The people openly cry
and still ask why

I
quietly sigh —
life is their lie.

The patient sky
remains our allay

Not something to buy,
but a shy high
that never dies

After a day spent watching pigeons cross an open sky and shaping this poem, and following an exciting evening on the radio airwaves, I happened upon this performance before turning in for the night. It seemed a perfect fit. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Birds of a Feather (a Haiku)

A small moment in the morning sky… a flutter of colour, a whisper of calm, and a reminder of how lightly the world can move when we pause long enough to notice.

Birds of a Feather (a Haiku)

The black and white birds
Fly happily together
A wingspan apart

A quiet nod to harmony — where every feather, every colour, finds its place.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

Sometimes the morning gifts me a little magic.
Yesterday’s wander with Frankie brought a flurry of feathered moments — a Fantail on a rail, a Magpie mid‑grumble, a Mudlark caught in a swirl of tiny bravado. These images arrived with such charm and mischief that the words followed instantly, light as a breeze. What began as a simple set of photos quickly turned into a playful tale of one tiny bird bossing the bigger ones about, all in good humour and whimsy.

The cheeky Fantail and the grumpy Magpie

The twirling Fantail and the brave Mudlark

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

I’m not a fiendish tax collector,
nor a fat company director.
I’m not a bossy dictator,
nor a busy Choir conductor.

I’m just a flighty tiny fella
who flits around like a flirty ballerina —
a cheeky little Fantail who unfurls
on the breeze, commander of curls;
Magpie stumbles, Mudlark sighs —
yet all obey my mischievous eyes.

A burst of bright, buoyant energy to match my cheeky Fantail’s playful world — Nick Cave’s “Joy” feels like the perfect musical wink to close this whimsical tale.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

Nature’s Honest Sky (a Tanka)

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
Where the day opens its wings to truth

Nature’s Honest Sky (a Tanka)

Why retire your wings
When you’re still able to fly
Through the soft white clouds
There in nature’s azure sky
Where the air always feels true

Let this song drift beneath the wings of the poem — a soft score for nature’s honest sky.’

Ivor Steven © March 2026

My Journal’s Wings

Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word ‘Journal.’ To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here

“This morning’s muse — wings caught mid-thought.”

My Journal’s Wings

High above my poetic eye I fly,
where the early birds gracefully glide by
across the bright morning sky.

And in my journal, I pause to ask why
birds become the muses of my word supply—
as if their wings remind me
that thought itself is a kind of flight,
and every line I write
is another way of learning
how to rise.