The bower birds
in my garden
go psychotic
when the jacaranda
blooms
fall
and litter the lawn
with purple tones.
The still-green males
pogo like punks
and their beat
goes on and on.
Androgenous groupies
get into the groove,
plucking yellow dietes
in accompaniment.
But the boys
really love the blues,
bouncing
in boisterous
bower rehearsals.
They really want to be black.
Poem from: South Coast Writers Centre Anthology ‘Memory Box’, 2005
Photograph: Male bower bird in his power. Balgownie, 2008
Tim Heffernan - Poems 