The coots have built their nest among lily pads

on the park’s ornamental pond: too far out

for foxes, too high for water rats;

an aquatic castle keep of twigs,

subtle and elegant engineering.

Next time we pass a tiny beak is cracking

the latte-coloured carapace from within.

Instinctively the chick emerges,

shakes itself, teeters down to the water,

swims, returns, squeaking for food, both parents

immediately attendant – with their dark

plumage, the knightly blaze on the long,

horny shield of their beaks, their ancient

English name, named for their call, ‘Cut…cut’.

In summer the nest will have become flotsam,

the chick will have matured, the lilies flowered:

as sure as logic, as fugitive as blooms.