Unhinging winds
fringe maroon-fingered moon
marauding like a supernatural soupspoon
borne by crabby waiters
and bearing soupy bubbles dried to craters,
rings of rubble, seats of tranquillity
round sounds pacific,
as a star quacks up
a
song soporific:
floating on a lake
looking like a wooden decoy does.
Talk about a drake
ducking wooden ducks
making all the ducklings he can make.
Little bills drip
and cute butts droop
as ducklings sip up duck-poo soup.
Wild, foul, and evoking Vikings nautically,
their draconian prows poking haughtily,
milordy Mallards snap
at broadsides splashing naughtily.
Watery
plumes spurt vertically as ducklings
plunge pluckily, submerge their
bubbly plumage and splurge,
as busy as bees among water-lilies.
Wearing
a flattering lilac
quadrilateral,
an old wing flickers and flings off
an oddly fluttering splodge
of soggy leaf-litter
Slop!
Weary
of malarkey,
of fuss and flap,
flustered mallards flag and,
fanning tails like packs of cards,
upon the ponds flagstones flop.
Warily
one lardy male
waddles off on lobstrous
paddles, to gingerly stretch his neck
to shovel up sumptuous
croutons
presumptuously for
injury
maladies
him.
Whence
one's tardy meal, as ducklings dodge us
and each other, snatching flies from
the air, like aquatic spiders.