February 2001

Remembering the Hornbill
 

Chatty Lord Hornbill ... kruk ... krik ...

pecking my back as if to scratch it.

All the times you threw my sandals around

playing, dragging, shoving them about like a tractor.

Now you've died, gone and left us

after landing on a high power transformer.

One foot burnt to a crisp, your last breath

no peacock's screech could compare.

The hearts of everyone who knew you

skipped a beat when they got the news.

No matter how or where, whoever dies

having lived virtuously can't really sadden anyone.