Kingfishers aren’t blue

Last week’s candles now look a sorry state, but

the tardy conkers will prize this rain,

I pick my steps gingerly, on and off the path

a carpet of sodden cherry blossom

subtle rouge stains, bleeding

into the darker puddles.

Ferns begin to unroll their tongues

eagerly licking at my bare shins,

the taller grasses also bathe my knees

leaving seeds that lodge between my toes

they itch mercilessly.

Three times a week

I take my usual rest on a sleeper bench

to scan the stream for the kingfisher,

this morning the muddied current

is swift, the sluices must be open.

I saw one once, just once,

last summer

a magical piercing flash

arrowing just above low water,

breath-taking,

so, I wait.

Published by grahamrsherwood