Bin Chicken
oddly they swim where only yesterday
grass laid down and withered
having been subjected to the slasher’s blade
“Them be bin chickens” me mate once said
as we walked past them at the airport
not far from Tweed Heads
“bin chickens? I think not
as they plunge their long beaks
into the impromptu swamp on the Church’s plot
not a bin in sight
but probably a few tadpoles in their now –
those frogs don’t waste the night!
circling gloom and moist faces
look with wonder at the summer rains
that have arrived once again from northern plains
zombie and anti, the cyclones come and go
and traffic whizzes by as people try to finish
finish the toil and trouble as the rain flows
all the time the ibis pecks on
with the odd ‘roo and joey looking from beneath the tree
wondering when the rain will end
summer comes and summer goes
soon the fire threat will grow and grow
and emergency plans will need to be so
lifting gloom and now wet faces
are also on the frowns in offshore places
a great shame they can’t be here
bin chickens, yes, that they be
but provided for as promised for eternity
by the One whose birth we celebrate
a gift, a gift, all wrapped up in rags
that will change us and change the world
and the ibis, well, it doesn’t care:
just as long as there are frogs.
© tastigr 2018
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