That Thing

The wind that blew all night had dislodged

a branch from the red gum, or at least

a slab of bark, and it had become wedged

on top of the garden gate;

or so she thought. But when she approached

the wooden object leaning there,

a pair of yellow eyes—two egg yolks poached

and glazed—opened to stare

toward her. She was disgusted and repelled.

That dead branch was a living tawny

frogmouth: ornithology might have told

her; but such knowledge she

had no use for, referring to the bird

as “That Thing”, as in “Is That

Thing still there?” The words

formed as though she spat

some foul taste from her mouth.

Plumage of tree bark, recessed reptilian

beak, eyes like golden coins, earth

brown and grey tones

designed for That Thing to merge

into its background; the bird stayed all day

on the gate, motionless on the perch,

and then it went away.

Yet her fear and distaste remained

in the space it chose to vacate,

filling her instinctive mind

with tawny feathered hate.

Jamie Grant