Missing
Where are you now
my pretty bird
the dawn you must betray
as she comes sneaking round my sash
to nudge and taunt my lay ?
The kettle whistles from the stove,
impatient at the station,
to hiss,
to rob
from scalded leaf
a horde of gold hydration.
The cook is on his mid-day stool,
two fish wait at his altar,
he fashions dresses for their flesh:
John Dory (and his daughter!)
Where are you now
my pretty bird
who must at evening call
the spirits out
to guard this night
from pain, from death, and all?
(The cat had dined alone last night,
-to him it did not matter-
two tasty eyes, twin spindly legs,
alas, they'll get no fatter!)
(copyright/Finbar Wright/Aug. MMiv)