Maurice Riordan


emerge from the orchard.
There now Aunt Kit says,
pouring us lemonade.
It’ll be another scorcher.

The bronze birds drop wing,
shake caruncle and snood
engorged with purple blood,
and rattle in full barding.

My prize cock’s gone lame!

He lifts each ringed foot
singly, slowly — to shoot
the short film frame by frame.

In rue Ortolan I hear
the chorus of gobbles
roll across the mossed cobbles
from distant Ophir.

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