❦Clay Coloured❦

Bleak and bland, a bothersome blight.


For show


Coo-coo-cooing in their cages,
sweet little ladies kept safe
and in sight of keen eyes.
The small hatches on top
open easily, even without keys.

She sits perched above the others,
with her white plumage and neck a fat arch,
small unblinking eyes black as tar.
She looks like she belongs
on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

I watch as they hold her
like you would a ripening fruit,
squeezing and prodding.
When they stretch out her wings,
I must look away.

When I walk down the aisles,
the ladies either stare, resigned,
or flutter their feathers in fright.
I wonder if they know their supposed worth
or if they just want home.

Later, at the hotel bar, with a pint of Guinness at my elbow,
I write pages and pages
about the fortune teller. She said:
You have three good years ahead -
only good, not the best -
and three major changes coming your way,
and, I want happiness, love and my hands are ambitious.

Later, in bed, with the curtains drawn to the rising tide,
I imagine a cottage
with redcurrant bushes in the front garden
and a large wooden loft, pine,
nestled between plum trees out back.
And I imagine a warm hand on my shoulder
and a fat pink baby coo-coo-cooing on my knee.