Duck

We’d fallen foul of climate change and cursed the broiling sun.
The river dried up and the lake-turned-pond turned brown.

Around the pond, the grass crisped yellow, leaves fell early.
Our neighbours were rowing, and the postman was surly.

She was anchored by her webbed feet in the sticky mud.
Her head was pecked, and the feathers caked with blood.

Wounds had opened, exacerbated by the sun.
We found a pellet in her leg, discharged from an air gun.

The vet was no help, he was overworked and underpaid.
Duck was only worth the bother for the eggs she might have laid.

She was too traumatised and damaged to attempt to fly.
We fell for her placidness and the sadness in her eyes.

We made a yellow wig to cover up her scars.
She learned not to panic on the back seat of our car.

And then the deluge came, for forty days and forty nights.
In nice weather for ducks, she spread her wings and took flight.