The Kingfisher
Mushrooms on a fallen chestnut, a walk
across the bottom field, a rutted road
submerged by icy eddies at the ford,
all bring me closer to her resting place.
From its perch on the bluff, the kingfisher
guards the crossing. Its staccato rattle
hails me at the water's edge. It taunts me:
she is mine now, she is cold, she is dead.
She followed her father across the stream
to the grave where she watches the kingfisher
forever darting, diving, chattering,
jeering: lie here, lie cold, lie dead, lie still.
She could have followed me. I live alone
in the farmhouse on my side of the stream.
© George Miller 2005