Ahoy for Joy by Keith Reilly Page A

observed over many hours.
    One was a fascinating, if haunting piece, about a little bird, a starling, that had built her nest in the hawthorn bush in the small garden at the front of his home. He had watched her incubate her eggs, then care for the chicks, feeding and tending to them diligently from hatching through to preparation for their first flight. He would check progress every day after school and had even set a small stool at the base of the shrub, so that he could raise himself up the extra height required for a direct view right through the branches and into the nest. The hawthorn bush provided the perfect cover and protection for the chicks with its strong, slim branches, too flexible to support the weight of a cat. With its razor sharp spikes, the defence it offered was as good, or better than the great rings of darnet wire the army favoured for their own security.
    He spoke of the privilege he felt at the ringside seat he had on the natural world and concerned himself that he may scare the bird, with his large head periodically gazing inside, only inches from the mother hen and her chicks. Still, he set aside the bird’s fears deeming them unwarranted and watched closely until one day the three chicks were finally ready for their first flight.
    Breathless, he watched as the first launched itself from the nest, but it failed to gain enough lift and despite some flapping landed in the little garden below, horribly exposed to the local cat, which lost no time in slaying the defenceless creature. Then, in horror he watched as the predator, clearly considering the possibility of siblings, lay in wait beneath the nest in patient expectation of another little feathered creature falling from the sky with which to entertain itself.
    It didn’t have to wait long and presently, the second little bird launched from the nest with all the hope of any creature starting out in life. With enthusiastic flapping it was just gaining enough height to keep clear of the grass below, when the cat raised its paw and hit the hapless chick while it was still in the air, stunning it and leaving it flailing on the ground.
    The third fared no better and in just a few moments, the product of a mother’s love, care and diligent effort lay in three tiny, feathered clumps on the grass beneath. The work culminated in a poignant description of the frenzied flight of the distraught mother, squawking desperately as she searched for her lost chicks, something he described as a desperate grief as real as any human emotion. Anna had cried over this one.
    He had written another wonderful poem called
In search of Cadmium Yellow
. It seemed he had spent the day trying to find all the colours in an artist’s pallet. They had wonderful names such as yellow ochre and burnt umber, cerulean blue, sienna sap and alizarin crimson. Most he seemed to have been able to find without too much trouble, but one in particular,
cadmium yellow
had left him most exasperated. He described it as being a yellow of
primary shade of form and tone.
    Anna couldn’t understand the problem, the countryside was surely littered with yellow flowers at the time of year. Everything was available from Dandelion to Foxglove, but it seemed that none would do, for he declared it was
plant
he sought not flower. Anna was confused and couldn’t think of a yellow plant and it all seemed a little gloomy until the final verse. Then at last, he mounted a ridge and triumphantly Samson and Goliath came into view, quickly ending both his search and the poem.
    Anna couldn’t understand the biblical reference but had taken up the challenge, reading her old testament fervently, searching for any reference to these two giants that might associate either with yellow of the cadmium hue or indeed any shade. She could find none. Giving up, she had asked him for hints and help, but he had provided none, other than his assurance that she
would
find out one day.
    Everything seemed to