After the lawn I had been mowing
down it descends for a landing
from a branch of an elder tree
and to me it's a colourful beautiful thing:
with its white and black checked wings
its pink-orange-brown colour and it sings
before it walks on the grass where it's on the hunt
do peck with the motion of some coiled springs
catching insects here and there, like a machine, very thorough
while it spreads its fan-shaped crest and in the summer sun does glow,
do for only a moment rest as if it is pensive
where it walks with laser sharp eyes very slow
and at the sight of me it does fly away
to return on another day.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem