Parrots by Judith Wright

Standard

Loquats are cold as winter suns.

Among rough leaves their clusters glow

like oval beads of cloudy amber,

or small fat flames of birthday candles.

 

Parrots, when the winter dwindles

their forest fruits and seeds, remember

where the swelling loquats grow,

how chill and sweet their thin juice runs,

 

and shivering in the morning cold

we draw the curtains back and see

the lovely greed of their descending,

the lilt of flight that blurs their glories,

 

and warm our eyes upon the lories

and the rainbow-parrots landing.

There’s not a fruit on any tree

to match their crimson, green and gold.

 

To see them cling and sip and sway,

loquats are no great price to pay.

 

Advertisements

Comments are closed.