Sunday, July 31, 2011

Duck Soup

Glassy plumes fly up, collapsing
back to a flatness that mirrors
nothing. A ponderous pause

and up springs a duckling, fluffy
but with butt bedraggled, sipping
duck-poo soup and snatching flies
from the bottom of the sky;

splurging with his siblings: golden spiderlings,
as busy as bees in the water-lilies. They emerge
from their submergings like broadsides beside
a lardy male mallard who evokes long-ships
with his draconian head as he waddles by
on lobstrous feet. Flustered, he flaps his wings,
and peacock-blue rhombuses blink
and fling off oddly fluttering splodges
of soggy leaf-litter. Weary of malarkey
he fans out his butt like a pack of cards
and onto a flagstone flops. Wary of malady
he gingerly stretches out his white-collared neck
for sumptuous croutons, a little presumptuously.

Unhinging winds fringe maroon-fingered moon,
like a waiter with a supernatural soup-spoon;
a crater of rubble like a burst bubble serving
as a seat of tranquillity for a duck quacking
up a soporific melody of sounds pacific: "Talk about a duck
floating on a lake, looking like a wooden decoy does;
talk about a drake ducking wooden ducks,
making all the ducklings he can make."

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