Felicity Teague

The Night-Watchman

They met in secret, as she wasn’t right

within his world; he hid her day by day.

His local park was safe enough by night,

unkempt, mysterious in tones of grey.

She’d spread a picnic blanket on the ground

beneath their favourite tree, and for a time

the world was only them, amidst the sound

and rushing scent of summer silver lime.

One night, he startled. Something in the reeds

was watching them, a round and red device.

He panicked. She began to think, what breeds

of birds were here? It blinked … winked … twice.

The buck-moon, drifting in and out of clouds,

provided subtle shows of form and coat,

unveiling from the coming midnight’s shrouds

a stout and stooped design, with shifting throat.

A black-crowned heron, she remembered then,

from reading books of birds, some years ago.

It blinked or winked its scarlet eye again,

just watching water shimmer, ripple, flow.

Felicity Teague lives in Pittville, UK. She has had inflammatory arthritis since she was twelve yet is able to work from home as a copyeditor, mainly in health and social care. Her poetry features regularly in the Spotlight of The HyperTexts; she has also been published by Snakeskin, The Ekphrastic Review, The Dirigible Balloon, Pulsebeat, Lighten Up Online, and Amethyst. Her other interests include art, birdwatching, film, music, photography, and guinea pigs.