you walk silly, my big-footed bumbler,
without full control, the legs awarded you
end in the orange spiders of your feet.
you are way further up that tree
than you should be, clinging desperately
and with much feather flapping
as the wind tries to dethrone you.
I have seen your friends already
teetering along the neighbour’s fence top,
they are like plump blue acrobats in white bloomers.
what are they doing up there?
your kind are over-confident, my bumbler,
ill-suited for heights, yet high you climb
up trees, fences, rooves and vines
always completely clumsy
and without apology.