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