The Kingfisher

The fourth time that I saw the kingfisher –
which unexpectedly streaked overhead –
or perched, precarious, on a swaying sapling –
and never realised that its breast was red –

at once depression lifted. I am used to
infrequent sights of heron, grebe or owl,
yet hardly, in that bleak November, hoped for
this miracle. Its flesh (they say) tastes foul,

but that does not concern me. I can count them,
spaced out, those brief amazing times I’ve seen,
across my river, which moves all before it,
bears all away, that flash of brilliant green.

I spotted a kingfisher (for only the fourth time) by the Thames in November 2020 after months of lockdown. It instantly lifted my spirits.