Whereas I should have been
exercising my mind mentally writing
I was captured by a preening bird
– thoughts ignited in its beauty.
Half concealed by a golden cane
it addressed feathers meticulously,
one eye on me, cagily watching
the watcher.
That it might have been a barred
cuckoo-shrike served no cause
for me, we were eye to eye in
sympathy – it and me.
And I lay in the bubbles of the
spa luxuriating, bird contemplating
which feather to preen, between us
a beer in frosted glass waiting
we were connected
in a fragile strand of unity
bound by its ability to leave
as and when it chose.
And it stayed and preened.
© I.D. Carswell 2007
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