The Bower-Bird's Arbour by Shirley Symes

Underneath the branches, up against the trunk,

A little pile of sticks and twigs and what you might call junk.

Coloured glass and shells and pegs gathered in a heap.

A little shiny whistle that’s forgotten how to beep.

The arbour is enticing – a fancy work of art.

It must have taken ages – the design is very smart.

Tall springy bits of boughs and even leafy fronds,

Does he have a blueprint or just some magic wands?

Today I saw some bottletops scrounged from someone’s yard.

Although he flies around a lot, it must be very hard

To find the pieces, big and small, that decorate the floor,

The task must be rewarding for he gathers more and more.

So I check up on the playhouse, sometimes catch a peep,

Of that Oh so busy Bower-bird as he takes another sweep

Of the rubbish heaps, the garden beds, even the quiet house,

For yet another trophy to show off to his spouse.

A treasure house of colours, a monument to love.

What pride in his possessions as he circles from above.

Guarding special tokens with loud and strident squawks,

Scaring off attention from the Lousy-Jacks and Hawks.

The energy and pattern that’s devoted to the play,

The habits and performances that’s repeated every day,

Nature is a wonder and this Bower-bird does inspire,

I’m just a nosy parker, privileged to admire.

This work of art, this temple, underneath the tree,

A testament to nature and the rules that help us see,

The wonderment, the ritual, of creatures large and small,

We should appreciate and understand the beauty of it all.