The Resting Admiral
It’s Autumn in the park, but in his heart
or reproductive instincts, it is Spring.
The sunshine stirs his sleepy phallic part;
he spends the afternoon in loitering
within his territory. He strikes his pose;
a male assails the bridge. Gerroff! he warns,
and struts towards the foe in flaming throes,
antennae bristling, ferocious, fierce as horns –
except one’s lost its tip. He tries to fly
the trusted route to see off rivals – up
and circle, helical – but it’s awry;
he tries again, unwavering. Hup-hup!
Then dizziness sets in and stays; he flails
and has to rest instead. He spreads his sails.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Felicity Teague would be
pleased to hear them