MALLARD DUCK

The Mallard Duck was quick to quack,
He wasn't one to halt
And with no language, bound to lack,
That hardly was his fault...
But on he went, with much ado,
Quite fervent for his size,
As if to quack was something new
And somehow was so wise...

I sketched away and marvelled there,
His plumage coloured so,
To patchwork quilts he could compare,
When waddling to and fro...
And yet a friendly chap was he,
Advancing to be fed,
Upon the crumbs I offered free,
From handpicked scraps of bread...

And then his quacks seemed not so queer,
Like 'Thank-you, you're a friend!'
As if though tall, he liked me near,
That's nice to comprehend...
My sketch was done, now time to leave,
All my bread gone, none left...
No wonder, ducks are bound to grieve,
In fact, he looked... bereft!


Denis Martindale, copyright July 2016.


A poem based on a magnificent wildlife painting
by Stephen Gayford. Google-search phrases
gayford prints and 'Stephen Gayford poetry'.

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