Midori's miserable.
Don't ask me how,
but she's come off second best
from a fight with the water tray.
Her famous green feathers
turning a sodden black.
But plonked
in front of the fire
she soon perks up.
And it's good to hear again
her sandpaper scuttle,
like rain on the roof,
her insistent squawk
scraping like a knife
Like the stalking stilts
our eyes too search
for something of interest.
We are not disappointed.
Krill decorate the water's edge
with flamingo-orange.
Tiny shrimps, en masse,
spluttering among the rocks.
From there to the playground
we pass by sated seagulls.
You call them'ladybirds'. Somehow it fits
and I haven't the heart
to correct you.
"The ladybirds are laughing."
Your eyes saying it all,
about how neat and square
your frame of reference.
You chase them, laughing yourself
as they run away from you, turning
themselves back into sky.
You too,
are part of that cloudy sky.
You know it, but do not flaunt it.
Your feathers lie quiet
as you try the seasaw, balance the air.
You are learning to add it all up,
but slowly, for there really is no rush
yet to understand the margins
or where the edges blur. It will not be long
and you will know only too well
the make-up and certain cell structure
of krill and seagulls and how we all fit
in the food chain.