K:Forest Kingfisher

Forest Kingfisher

In this place, where nothing is sacred but rage,
where sentiment is weakness and the weak
potential victims, some would find it odd
that my broken Forest Kingfisher can command
a constant tribute of tadpoles and small lizards,
or receive, enthroned upon my left shoulder,
a steady stream of hard men seeking audience
as though he could enact a Royal Amnesty.

For he is not royal, merely a broken bird
the world has treated roughly, so that when he flies
it is only in a long, descending flutter
that leaves him squalling in shame and outrage
on the grass; nor are his feelings soothed
by the raucous gibes of Blue Kookaburras who scorn
his daily lack of progress and mock his failure
from their high perches in the big poinsettia.

And then again, some may understand why it should be
that broken men gather daily to watch me coax him,
yet again, to try his wings upon the morning and to seek
amnesty from gravity: and when he fails
to lift his fragile body clear of the prison of earth
should breathe a long collective sigh and turn away,
back to the meaningless rituals of their own captivity,
having learned, again, there are no miracles.