Howard Firkin
I missed my calling:
should have been a wattlebird
and filled my days with nectar,
spilt myself in pollen-dusting acrobatics,
marked the nights in soaring flights
to pluck the sky of tiny fruits.
I hear it every morning,
tumbled in amongst the noisy miners
and the soft insistence of the blackbirds:
raucous joy. Half chuckle, half reproach.