Evelyn McNally
Flamingoes
These flamingoes are the colour of other sunsets
Too tropical for their own good.
It rubbed off on them when they flew South
For the very last time
Into their African sun.
They are the fierce colour of Mardi Gras
That hurts the eyes;
A shocking, pink hallucination
Too beautiful for Golders Green,
Standing like rouged prima donnas
On one unsteady, arthritic leg like
Leftover sawdust props
From a surreal Swan Lake.
Their terrible, milk shake albino eyes
Are frozen into tiny, white metal washers,
Imprinted with shrimp memory
Riveted inwards; buried in the solace
Of hot, sand pink feathers.
If they stayed here too long
They would be turned upside down
And used as croquet sticks,
Or turned into a calendar in builders yards;
Or a biscuit tin.
Page(s) 60
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