A bad night's sleep and a sky the colour of tombstones,
and the monotony of the morning, the now, the chill rain and the dull day,
and the crushing fear of the future
must seem pressing -
but look, have you ever seen a man paddling so happy in such
an abundance of wet?
How do the ducks do it?
The rain and the run-off rise underneath that Mallard,
and he bobs on the swell and thinks
How grand is my private canal!
This is a neat chap capped with a glorious green.
(let the rain slash if it likes!)
The cold wind is skimming
the brown-brimming channel,
but the unsinkable duck is quacking and swimming,
and the scowling sky thins,
and cracks,
and grins.
Hercules couldn't lift the spirit, but a duck in a ditch is a fine thing.
(90% of this poem is written by me. I borrowed the phrase "Hercules couldn't lift the spirit" because it was a title prompt for a contest on the site AllPoetry. And I just wanted to write a poem about a duck for a contest.)
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