Leda with Pelican

Another well-read idiot, he arrives on the scene
all distensible pouch and brown feathers.
She is on vacation, delicately beached,
slowly grilling pale bikini-clad flesh.
He swoops down for the slow, insidious
rub-a-dub as reggae vibrates in the background.
She is aware of such misguided imposters.
And having heard of these sudden inept
violations she waits out this brown blizzard
of feathers, the pathetic flapping wings,
the quick moan then sad dribble of his viscid ooze.
This lack of staying power does not surprise her.
Her eyes sweep the horizon over a feathered shoulder
while the surf withholds its thunderous applause.

Mark Jason Weston

Originally published in The North (UK) 1999