Mother is concerned about me
walking outside like an oystercatcher
with my tetrapod walking stick.

Its rubber hooves starfish paving slabs
as I do the Cha Cha Slide
in slow mo. Local office workers

point and laugh at me pecking
the ground with my aluminium and rubber
beak. They cannot understand

what it means to lose your mobility
and then slowly regain it like an accordion
exhaling to full size. Even though

I was full of joy, I could see
an ocean ahead of me. I have never seen
an oystercatcher fly, only heard

the sad lament of its tracks as the wet
sand consumed them, as if it knew its fate,
as if it knew all our fates.

– Christian Ward