Another poem for my self declared Penguin Week πŸ™‚

I’ve got the snow going as well (ps. I know some people find the snow a bit naff, but I have never ever seen snow – except on the distant mountains in Bosnia – so my fake snow is all I’ve got).

Flight of the Penguin

On land the penguin reminds
us of the portly Hercule Poirot,
quick little bird steps and jerky
body roll, in black and white.

Ungainly chubby shuffle,
wings flare with a scare,
squawking and screeching
squabbling and beseeching,

like a malodorous kindergarten,
(that’s being polite)
of flamboyant youngsters,
who haven’t washed for a while.

But the sea is where they shine,
better out than in – not for a penguin.
Who said they cannot fly?
In the chilled deep they soar.

They belly glide on an ice slide,
launching into an azure slushy
that would restart an arrested heart,
graceful arc and near silent entry

into the dark blue big easy
(marine milieu connoisseur).
Consummate deep diving pro
with the ultimate gear to go:

flipper wings and slickest body,
heavy diver’s weight belt bones,
waterproof suit and insulating blubber,
paddle-like feet to propel.

Born to be seaborne flying
and dining on the tastiest krill,
fresh fish, and succulent squid,
and all of these perfectly chilled.

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Note: Image by Glenn Grant (acobox free images)