On Transience

We’d planted Kangaroo Paw, as a lure
that might attract some nectar-loving bird.
The flower-spikes grew tall. Come spring we saw
the luscious tubes were full in bloom – soft-furred
in shades of red and green, and at the end
each tube had opened wide. And once we heard,
but faintly, coming near, a call to send
us scurrying to hide. Two birds – quite sure
of where to land, flew in. We watched each bend
its tiny head to sip, then fly away.
They didn’t come again, although we’d wait
and hope to hear that call through each spring day.

They didn’t come again. The year grows late
and birds of spring are gone. The skies are grey
as I am. Beauty goes; all joys abate.

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