Jenny Wren – not everything is black and white


30x30cm Jenny Wren, Indian Ink on wooden panel, framed in a black floating frame

Availability: 1 in stock

Watching the little wrens pick at moss in the grass outside the studio is a wonderful distraction from everything I should be doing. With their tiny size and their perky tails, I love them. I have even been lucky enough to find their tiny nests in the honeysuckle after the end of the season.

So this little wren celebrates the occasional moments of calm in their busy life, as they pause, cock their heads and take a look around. In your home it might also give you a second to pause.

Would you like to know a few wren facts? Wrens do not migrate. Because they have such small bodies,wrens lose heat quickly and soon die if food is hard to find in winter. The wren family originates from the Americas and the rest of the world’s species are found there. In folk tales, the wren became the king of the birds by flying higher than the eagle. It was so small that it clung to the eagle’s back without it noticing and then when the eagle flew high and got tired, the wren could go higher still. See I told you I like wrens!!

This one is 30x30cm ink on wood framed in a floating black frame and ready to hang. I love all my paintings, so will do my best to package with care and ensure it arrives safely in your home.

Thanks to William Wordsworth for the poem, A wren’s nest:

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren’s
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,
The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.

These find, ‘mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird’s return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out
The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfill.

High on the trunk’s projecting brow,
And fixed an infant’s span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain
Can turn to little things; but once
Looked up for it in vain:

‘Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler’s prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
‘Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb
Thy quiet with no ill intent,
Secure from evil eyes and hands
On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian Flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove
Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft
In foresight, or in love.