In this domain, the birds fly north to sing.
They congregate to scissor-streak the air
in fours and fives, with chirp and flashing wing,
to loop and sweep their dances, cavalier
across the sky. Their shadows fleck the leaves
of trees who pick their dates to blush and change,
who do not crave the south wind's warm reprieves,
but look to winter's breath to rearrange
their greens for reds. Under their rustling boughs,
the rambling bougainvillea throws its sprays
of colour over walls, and spring allows
magenta, white and purple disarrays.
If I could have all this, and winter too,
I'd send the summer winging back to you.
