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Brenda Whincup

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Clarissa's Bugle

We were told she had a pedigree
at a time when a goose was a goose
just a goose, to me, but it
seems that our Clarissa was a lady.

Some might say Lady Muck, and indeed
most times she was
up to her eyes in the dust of her
daily round, because here
was a water bird
who simply didn’t care for water.

Preferring to be there where she thought
the action was, with us, she
became a fine conversationalist;
and, echoing a burlesque
queen – ‘if you’re gonna bump
it, bump it with a trumpet’ –
she would let her voice bugle out!

If we were setting off, or coming
in it was, “Where are you going?”
“Where have you been?”  As
she came in a tipsy dot-and-carry
across the grass – undercarriage
whitely ruffled and fluffed
just like a prima ballerina,
with the legs of a sumo wrestler.

Oh, Clarissa….

Death came for you from out of a
red dawn – teaching
me to hate all that I had tried
to understand before –
leaving us a long, cold silence.

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