The Writing on the Sand
When springtime comes to Aussieland
And you’ve the urge to walk the strand
With rascally Fido or frisky Rover,
Try not to stress the Hooded Plover,
Sandy-brown and black and white
And sporting a bill that’s ruby-bright.
You might detect a tubby pair
Plucking fleas from the beach’s hair
Or darting on pink-as-coral legs,
Or come across a couple of eggs
Atop a dune or above high-tide.
But if your eyes are occupied
By cumuli, or you’re in a rush,
Tough paws or sandaled feet could crush
Those grey-brown-speckled entities.
Why don’t these birds make nests in trees
Like rational birds? Are they deranged
For laying on a coast that’s changed?
Their eggs are camouflaged; a fox
Might well pass by them on his walks.
Yet, lately, there’s a bigger worry
Than prowling beasts with fangs and furry.
Let’s pray the writing on the sand
Is not too bleak in Aussieland.
|