The Bird
The bird
crept up on him, threw its voice into an empty tree,
he started to notice the aliveness of things,
wondered how
he had slept through his adult life
without ever having inhabited a bush.
The bird
followed him into a glade, revealed
certain important objects, a surging eyeball,
fully encased, a weapons-grade flask, army slacks
ideal for losing himself in,
he was rabid for the hunt.
The bird
was pleased with his progress, sent dispatches to other birds
on how he filled the air
with a librarian’s conceit,
recorded everything
in notebooks and photographs, a wayward inheritance.
To his family
it was nothing more than the latest hobby,
but quietly, assuredly, on those hot and cold days,
he learnt
how to hold the enemy in his crosshairs
and choose mercy.
Rich Yates is working on his first collection of poetry. His poems have so far appeared in Viper’s Tongue magazine. He is a proud Essex boy, works in conservation where he can enjoy the quiet beauty of the saltmarsh, and is a keen musician.