I walked along the lakeside,
As a radiance of kingfishers moved,
A vast swarm, flowing through the air,
A concentration built for the rain,
But coloured in by children,
A rattling relm in greater numbers
Than I have ever seen.

And I must tell you now,
They lift their crowns in excitement,
Raising quick their ten inch wings,
And dive.

And their sharp beaks,
Are so sleek,
The Japanese, I’m told,
Modelled bullet trains
On their design.

And the kingfisher moves
In one holy operation of life
Architected for falling flight.

And theirs is an arrowed, piercing plunge
From resting place to lake shallow,
And with a beating back of wings,
A hovering snap, and elastic lift,
They fall, a meteor of feathered flesh
That drops only to again repair unto rest,
After contorting once, their brittle necks
To feed on the last gasps of air exhausted gills.



Image: photo by David Clode on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.

Oisín Breen
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