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