Looks like that wattlebird’s taken over this district.
Moved in like the Mafia. Even the cat
knows it’s too big to handle, and the neighbours
have gone quiet. Its quacking cluck
first woke the neighbourhood a month or two ago
and now it springs you everywhere.
Hidden in gardens, it’s shredding
the first fine shoots of roses, tearing up
the baby’s tears. Have a go, it clangs
to the quiet of the well-bred street,
go on, loser, take me on.
It moves out of the trees on to my fence.
With a politician’s nerve it stares me out.
*First published Triptych Poets 3 (Blemish Press 2012)