Ian Parks
Kingfisher
It won’t always be like this:
walking the meadows arm in arm
and pausing downstream from the bridge
to watch your first kingfisher
skim the surface of the weir.
So make the best of it: find something
in this fleck of perfect blue
that flashes its design across the day
then comes to rest among the river-trees.
Erratic, unpredictable,
each love poem is the last.
It lives for the moment
of its splendid, vibrant fall;
its sudden dive through nothing
has no future and no past;
and if it happens in the heart
you can’t be held responsible at all.
Page(s) 94
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