The tree-ferns they buttress, an inch-thick cream Curd sits tall, sits pretty- on his feet; As snow and milk scatters, from the moon Wiping his beak into the froth. Languid, smiling, cackles does he, tempting Feasts under feathered tin cups, the apple Sleeping, snow-borne, rotting nicely, he Is pecking. Arrow-tipped eyes, Watch, they are watching, watching me, always. He is busy, he is trite and black and bony. Rustling pearly ball-gown Feathers, boring out the forest chill. Mindless, mindless wandering- he is sore, He is Kingly. A dotted branch, snaps- Matted curly nooks he falls like stones That scarlet fish gobble as jewels. Perching, the crowny thorns sit left and right, The nimble spider, he spins and drops A moonstone pebble, upon the ground; He ticks and watches, better-born.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
Advertisements
adored! more please…
Well thank you! More soon. 🙂
Hi Eve. The comparison of voice between this poem and the poem ‘bird’ is astounding. This one contains all essence of crowness. I like the way you use word repetition. ‘pearly ball-gown feathers’ is great. Jane
Hi Jane! Thank you, I’m glad I’ve managed to capture the ‘ essence of crowness’ in your eyes. 🙂 Thanks again for stopping by, pop back any time!
You have a very strange style which I’m not used to, thanks for sharing it.
Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment! 🙂