A birthday song

In the evening, the Hadeda noted it.
Shouted out into the dusk, and in the morning
Yelled it to his friends in case they’d missed it.

In the morning, the Guppies knew it.
Their rainbow silver fins flashed
Signals from the sunshine-laden pool.

In the night-time, the Frogs sang it.
Trilled the tune, first one, then more.
Until my ears rang with the news of it.

The Gecko told me in the darkness.
Skirting the walls for the lonely moth,
He stilled himself, whispered, and hid in the shadow.

The Moon was pregnant with it.
Waxing, growing, bright with light
She danced the news along the stars.

The Earth smiled with it. “It’s not always easy
To carry them. Years of two, and ten, and then three score
I’ve had this one dancing on my back, yet could bear some more.”

The Weaver Watches the Night

Newborns sprout at midnight. They unfold their tendrils,

Tilt their opening faces to the moon

And listen. A small stir somewhere in the dark,

A bird perhaps, or a cricket restless for morning. 

 

Those of us who watch are held by the silence,

Pinned to a gentle conspiracy,

Knowing all, and saying nothing. 

 

Then a frog trills, sharp and clear. The darkness

Alerts, waits and is silent. The frog sings

Out again, is silent, then

Rings out, rises and sings till the moon thrills and shakes

And the leaves tremble with it. 

 

Now the tiny dragon, watching still,

Twirls his tail, hugs the wall, and hides.