KINGFISHER

Flies fast across the road,
Bright plumage lost in shadow,
A low dark profile
Just ahead of our bus.
The driver, looking straight ahead,
Doesn't see it.
The man by his side, talking to him,
Doesn't see it.

I try to imagine one dead,
Hit by a passing bus
Unheard, unseen as it falls,
Looking like an oil drip
Glistening where the bright
Sunshine reflects its colours,
Except when a passing breeze
Ruffles its soiled, crumpled feathers.

Richard Stewart

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