THE BIRD BATH
by Stephen Whiteside
I’m just a humble bird bath. I have no tap or drain.
I only ever fill up if we have a fall of rain.
I never have a bar of soap, or bottle of shampoo,
Or sachet of those clever salts that soak you through and through.
I’m never cleaned. I’m never scrubbed. There’s lichen on my lip.
I’m gritty and I’m earthy. I provide a proper grip,
And those that use my services don’t mind that I am old,
Though my water might be cloudy, and its temp’rature quite cold.
They leap. They splash. They frolic, throwing spumes high in the air.
They play with great abandon, like they’ve not a single care.
They use me as a wash tub, yes, but choose to drink as well
Of my cool, refreshing water. They are happy, I can tell.
I’m just a simple bird bath, standing silent in the yard;
Abandoned, half forgotten, but I do not find life hard.
I’m frequently replenished by refreshing falls of rain,
And all my good friends visit me…again…again…again.
© Stephen Whiteside 11.09.2012
Photographs ♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward 26.12.2019