Colourful washing on a washing line
billowing dry in the strong March breeze;
the sky is clear and the weather's fine,
so say the trees.

Aeroplanes crawl up over Windsor's rest,
boatmen slide by on the River Thames
and daffodils nod horns to the west,
strength in their stems.

Myself, I was the blackbird yesterday,
the spotted grebe the day before that,
the day before that, the speckled jay,
but tomorrow I'll be the bat.
I'll fly from the castle, but not a bird
(not like yesterday - seen but not heard).

Here comes the girl to get the washing in;
Skygod has loomed with his darkling mood,
aeroplanes creep down to join their kin
from altitude.

Already I shake with battish twitches,
changing me slowly to flying fox.
By midnight I'll hang from the branches
'mid squeaking flocks.

And I'll be flying over Windsor's Queen,
a marsupial - heard but not seen.