The bird is thriving – in the narrow inlets

below the house – on small crustaceans

at low tides. The other, however,

though acclaimed by garden centres throughout

the northern hemisphere for its hardiness,

and placed with pride beside the driveway here,

is withering in the frequent, salty winds,

its fronds becoming a papery yellow.

Too tedious to tease out teacher-like

all the parables and allegories this

particular tree and this particular

animal might be made to feature in –

as if they were responsible for their lot.

So, Sister Egret, Brother Palm, although

your ancestors were originally

natives of more fragrant, southerly climes,

unlike mine, we are where we are.