These feathers?
- picked up in the park
when the morning sun
brought out their sparkle.
This would be from a magpie
(local version, pert, musical),
this from a harsh cockatoo,
this with its speckles
a crooning tawny frogmouth,
or a loud kookaburra.
They all had a sheen
when I pocketed them -
like the pebbles
on a clear creek bed
precious while wet only -
indoors flat as flat.
The rainbow lorikeet
dead on the roadway -
to stoop and pluck
would have seemed
to stoop too far.
It dazzled still.
This feather, kept apart,
I brought from Ireland -
dropped by one of the swans,
soon counted, by the lake
in Coole Park, no less.
It lay for decades
on my desk, making my talk
less abstract, failing
to lift me into song.
10 January 2007
Max Richards
Doncaster, Vic.
[thanks to Alison and Randolph; welcome thanks to Anny and Joseph]
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