Poetry by D.W. Walker

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Bird Life

Archaeopteryx perches, high in the Jurassic jungle,
Preening its newly invented feathers,
Pondering its role as the first of a new class of animal,
Struggling to picture the future
Above the incessant roaring of its old-fashioned relatives.

Sunday morning in suburbia,
The roar of mowers echoing from house to house,
A gardener turns the earth, moves on,
Magpie, three paces behind, steps forward,
Digs with its beak.

In the steamy heat of a massive subcontinental stadium,
The bowler thunders in, the batsman prods forward,
The crowd roars,
The vultures circle, dipping and climbing,
Waiting for the next wicket to fall.

Mach 1 blowflies, buzzing like bandsaws,
Barrel roll into unyielding glass.
Subversive moths, eager to be part of the legislative process
Blanket the house on the hill,
Putting out the light.

Tin predators lurk above empty skies,
Searching in vain for non-existent threats,
Their unceasing roar hiding the gentle thump
As distracted jumbo jets collide,
Spilling presidents and spooks onto the land below.

That roar is gone now,
The space filled by a new wall of sound -
Whistles, cheeps, chirps
And imitation telephones.

Archaeopteryx decides it's all too hard,
Fluffs up its feathers,
Dive-bombs a fossil hunter.

 

Copyright D.W. Walker, 2003


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