The parakeet’s a common sight these days,
so when it chirps out loud and flutters by
I hurriedly acknowledge its display,

its quick green ember flits through autumn sky.
Then another gangly form flaps into view,
as if a pile of tags has learned to fly

but as it perches on the chimney flue
of the renovated crackhouse that was sold
to unsuspecting hoity-toity dupes—

its form becomes apparent, standing bold:
the long legs and the rapier-like beak—
the coy carp rustler, scourge of urban ponds.

The day is young, though I have been awake
for hours, I rose early to watch the match—
the Welsh rampant, renewed Irish heartbreak—

and we’ll return hours later when we’ll watch
our friends just wedded on the national news,
background footage for the latest dispatch

about the wedding of Beatle number two.
And yet despite this boozy, happy day—
the hiccuping babies and the spoken vows—

the first thing that my memory relays
on closing my eyes when the day is done
is how our small homes looked from his high gaze,

the blameless, greedy vision of the heron.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 17, 2012 @ 09:40:24

    I like about this poem, there are so many things in it. Now I need to delve deeper and search for underlying themes…or I could just enjoy the words for themselves.


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