Fergus Michael Condron (02/05/1963 / London South East)
I run from the binding walls of the office,
noise of the phones and printers,
gasping, I reach the waterline,
the little coot she looks up,
the bread I have saved in my pocket,
I throw, she eats and I live again.
I gaze as she hunts the poor crumbes,
her beautiful neck, the water cascades off her feathers,
a twist of the head, she is asking for more,
I smile, she has made me live again.
I have no more bread for her,
away she swims, a little last peak, just to make sure,
she knows as I do, this pact we shall keep,
she will let me live again.
How happy is she? how happy am I?
I wait, as she does, for next time,
and I will live again.
Comments about this poem (Little Coot by Fergus Michael Condron )
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