The Kingfisher

Åpen door –
kann vi, then, enter?
The kingfisher alights the breeze.
(Poe uh) trees in pots by leaves
collected, bound: of grass.

Why… why only one?
For all the wooded-brown:
just you, amongst the stools
‘n chairs ‘n pews,
stood there, off’ring seat ‘n rest
a peachy-pink. The orange-breasted
kingfisher keeps the wall in feathers.

Auld, arched façade –
scaffold-laden – keeps its
guard’yun crow (Or raven?)
sheltered as it, clad in black,
looks down upon sheet-metal tagged
with propelled paint and adorned
with notices in neon. A turquoise
crown and robe in flight:
the kingfisher fishes from a frame.

Åpen, still – “Kann vi ha
lit kaffe?” – and the kingfisher
is hidden from my view
by queue of people.

A sunny Sunday morning
here in Bristol.

My name is William Altoft. I’m a writer in and from (and consistently on) Bristol, in the UK.



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2 thoughts on “The Kingfisher

  1. Wonderful 👌 👌 👌

  2. Thank you for sharing

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