The Great
There’s trouble at home, your parents are squabbling,Dinner’s not cooked and your whole world is wobbling.You retreat down the hallway and flop on your bed.You wish they’d un-say the things that they said.
As you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling,Shadows close in like the things that you’re feeling,You hope that quite soon it will all settle downAnd the tick of the clock is such a comforting sound.You let your mind float; you relax and breathe deep,And soon you’re drifting to a land beyond sleep…
… to get there you simply float out your door;Take a sharp right, then go right once more.Go far from the centre, drift along by the river;Shrug off the strange chill that gnaws at your liver.
Follow the rails past boarded-up stores,Avoiding the puddles where the ice never thaws.Pull your coat tightly, wind your scarf rightly;Flee those dark thoughts that come to you nightly.Ignore the stray dogs that nip at your heels,And their breath as sour as distant ice fields.
When the dogs stop snarling and the rails peter out,When you’re no longer sure just where you’re about,You’ll see a last platform with an air quite bereft.Just sit there and wait for a train going left.
And while you sit there, if you feel a bit flat,Think of hot cocoa and nice things like that.But just when you’re settled and start looking round,The platform erupts with a great mocking sound.It’s a manic crescendo of hysterical laughterAnd the source of that sound sits high on a rafter.
Deep in the gloom is a wise-looking creature -An old kookaburra with the look of a teacher.His eyes drill right through you, they fill you with fear.What on earth could he be doing up there!
He beckons you close with a long, ragged feather,One nibbled by moths and years of damp weather.Your feet shuffle nearer, despite feelings of danger -What was it Mum said about talking to strangers?Who could this be in a rumpled brown suit?And what’s that strange odour like over-ripe fruit?
But up close he’s not scary - more broken and sad.You’d almost feel pity if that smell was less bad.He asks you a question in a voice barely heard;A dry-as-dust rasp from a very old bird.
And the question he asks you is so hard to answer;It pricks like a thorn in the shoe of a dancer.“What did you do,” you hear the voice say,“When the Great Cocky made his big play?”Of what does he speak, in that voice high and wheezy?And why do you feel so strange and uneasy?
He draws himself up, as if playing a part,And his words squeeze forth like the sneakiest fart:“We were all there, so it’s no use pretending.We made this mess that seems so unending.”
“So you wish to deny it; I see that you would,But I insist that you listen, and you certainly should!”He beckons you over, as if in cahootsAnd you cover your nose at the smell of old fruit.“Let me tell you a story,” he wheezes and squawks,“Of a once-great land ruled by eagles and hawks.”
“Lalaland was its name and you’ll think that’s absurd,But it’s not at all odd if you think like a birdThat has its head in the sand and its tail in the air –When things are up-ended you’ll know that you’re near.”
“Lalaland is the place you find yourself inWhen your maps run out and your compasses spin.You go over mountains, through steep winding passes,And there lies a marsh where the greener grass is.This is a place unlike any you’ve seen,A glittering wetland where birds rule supreme.”
The old bird sighs deeply as he ponders past times(Again there’s that whiff of old melons and limes).His brow is furrowed with immense concentration- Or perhaps it’s the grip of intense constipation?
Whatever, you wish he’d get on with his telling,So you can escape the smell that you’re smelling.He soon recovers from whatever was pressing,And his voice gets husky as he starts reminiscing:“Lalaland once was a place most precious to me;It was the land of the brave and the land of the free.”
“Oh, the birds that were found in that wonderful place!Birds of one species, though not of one race:Birds that were brown, red-necked and fair;Every hue of the rainbow together lived there.”
“There were ibis and emus, quail and wrens;Brolgas that danced and flocks of wood hens.And above the great swamp, aloof beyond care,Swung the eagles and hawks, lords of the air.There was pecking and jostling, but most got along,’Til Cocky split us all with his discordant song.”
“A few birds admired him, but most weren’t impressedFor he was quite a small cocky despite his large crest.When he strutted and preened and sent forth his tweets,We Kookaburras chuckled, but not those on the street.”
“They loved what they heard from this plain-speaking birdAnd swallowed without question his worm-twitching words.”Kooka pauses and shrugs and looks all aroundAs he struggles to explain how Cocky got off the ground.“Cocky wasn’t just famous for the things that he said;It was also because of that thing on his head.”
“He was red-faced and bossy, with fairy-floss hair,That he combed from somewhere below his left ear.But his mates were galahs, not known for their smarts,Who took no exception to that hair and that part!”
“He pooped in their nests, but they seemed not to mind,For he had them believing he was one of their kind:One who worked for his crust and hedged all his bets,Who gambled responsibly and honoured his debts.He was none of these things, just tawdry and shallow,With mean little eyes and a quiff far too yellow.”
“To look at him now, you’d think I was crazyIf I told you, when young, he’d an eye for the ladies.He’d peck and pursue each plump partridge he saw;No tail feather was safe from his beak or his claw.”
“Oh, the preening and plucking of an old bird that is vain!He’d pluck out grey feathers while wincing with pain.But flocks soon gathered when he waved from his bower,Convinced one so lofty must have the powerTo find hidden worms and root out the grubs -Ideas gobbled greedily by those in the scrub.”
“His galahs soon built him a great nesting tower,But for wages got nothing but a filthy great showerOf husks and worms and hollowed-out shells;Trickle-down rubbish that fooled them quite well.”
“A few did protest and elbowed and foughtBut the lawsuits they brought were tossed out of court.Cocky fled from his debts, the whole toxic brew,He rose like a phoenix and burned them anew!I see,” says the Kooka, “the surprise in your eyes,But folks have always been duped by peddlers of lies.”
Here the old bird leans forward as if to confide.His wing’s on your shoulder as he takes you aside.“Now with regard to the swamp, let’s be perfectly frankSome parts were wholesome - but other parts stank.”
“Not every bird prospered, despite how they scrabbledSome bad eggs were hatched but most were just addled.And while troubles were many, goodwill abounded;Things were not near as bad as they soundedWhen the Great Cocky began his campaignTo end migration and ‘make the swamp great again.’”
“He flew far and wide, squawking his call -And the screech was so raucous the echoes reached all.What did he promise, this cleverest of birds?Answers so simple they were almost absurd.”
“‘I’ll find food a-plenty; I’ll soon restore order,I’ll grow a great hedge along the south border.I’ll keep out those birds that do not belong,Like those migrating terns that whistle strange songs.’And at first, we all chuckled, as kookaburras will,For who would believe one so cocky and shrill?”
“But we were sadly mistaken; our faith was misplaced:Our great flock was splintered by colour and race.The wrens stopped calling, the egrets grew stooped,The brolgas abandoned their high-stepping troupe.”
“A swamp that once throbbed with colour and lifeTurned in on itself, divided by strife.”The Kooka here pauses and tries to explain:“There were fears in the swamp that were causing great pain.‘They’re stealing our grubs,’ some birds would cry,And then along came a Cocky who claimed to know why!”
Part II
“Now all knew the swamp had been settled in wavesOf the very same birds that now ranted and raved.Their forebears too had flown to these shores,But this awkward truth they chose to ignore.”
“We native kookas, who’d lived there forever,Felt an ironic breeze ruffle our feathers.We cried, ‘That’s a bit rich! Why all the fuss?Way back this swamp belonged to just us!’We made a good pitch, but no one was buying.They were too busy listening to the Great Cocky lying.”
Old Kooka goes quiet; he’s shaking his head.He is clearly still shaken by whatever was said.But your toes have gone numb and both your ears ache;You can’t help but wonder how much longer he’ll take…
So you implore him: “go on; tell how it ends.Did the brown and the fair and the terns make amends?And what of that hedge that the Cocky proposed?Did many support it - or were most birds opposed?For surely,” (you say) “all birds were awareA hedge is no answer in a world that’s not fair.”
Kooka nods and concedes, “That is certainly true,But not all see as clearly as fledglings do.Strange things happen as our pinions grow,And the patterns that mark us begin to show.”
“We forget we’re one flock, that we’re all birds at heart;We focus instead on what sets us apart.Whether it’s a rainbow of colours, or none whatsoever,Some cannot see the bird for the feathers.So, while we sit here and wait for a train that won’t come,Let me tell you what happened - if your bum’s not too numb.”
“I know what you hope for, but the next bit gets grim,So brace for bad news and strap yourself in.The Cocky did exactly what he said he would do.He planted that hedge and he smiled as it grew.”
“Though the soil was bitter and salted with tears,That hedge kept on growing, year after year.A few birds protested and called it a blight,But its snaking branches soon blocked out the light.This was a price most were willing to payIf those birds from the south were now kept away.”
“There was a lot of support, in the short term -Especially from those who now got more worms.But as time went by many started to yearnFor the strange, mournful songs once sung by the terns.”
“Once the great hedge had reached its full height,It cast long shadows that blocked out the light.The wetland grew chill; the reeds stopped waving.Most couldn’t recall what it was they’d been saving.And when the swamp grew still as evening descended,We knew in our hearts something lovely had ended.”
“The marsh became drab with less sun and more shade;The lorikeets called off their rainbow parades.Most birds stopped flying, with no places to go,Mired in the swamp, they grew heavy and slow.”
“As we pondered the changes since Cocky’s star had risenWe realized - too late - the hedge was a prison.But when word reached the Cocky of unrest in the flock,His face went bright red and he went off his block!His hired crows were treated to a threatening tirade:‘If it’s circuses they want, I’ll give them parades!’”
“All birds were summoned to the swamp’s biggest clearing,And crows in black greatcoats led the loud cheering.A black claw on yellow hung over the stageAnd in front stood the Great Cocky, quivering with rage.”
“His voice when he spoke started low and grew shrillAnd in spite of themselves some birds felt a thrill.‘Birds of the Lalaland, so you want a parade?Let’s see how you like this new one I made!’As he gave a curt signal and raised his right thumb,In marched squadrons of geese to the beat of a drum.”
“He sneered, ‘Those brolgas that dance once had their uses,But what say you now to my high-stepping gooses?’The geese kept on coming, and we all noted with dreadThe small crests of yellow on top of each head.”
“The great flock went quiet at the tread of those feetAnd Great Cocky’s victory seemed almost complete.”“Tell me,” you plead, “that you didn’t let him win!”Kooka shakes his old head and tickles your chin.“Like all those before him who tried the same thing,That turkey got his Thanksgiving and boy did it sting!”
“Do you recall how he plucked out all feathers of grey?Well he did this for years ’til finally one day,When he was on stage, screeching loathing and fear,The voice of a bellbird rang out pure and clear.”
“Though but a fledgling, with a voice fluting not strident,Her pure young note struck the flock silent.‘Why’s he so angry? What’s he squawking about?What’s that thing on his head that bobs when he shouts?’And then came the question that began his downfall:‘How come that Cocky has no feathers at all?’”
“A great intake of breath greeted these wordsThe truth had been spoken by the youngest of birds.All that vain preening had brought him unstuckAnd we suddenly realised the Great Cocky was plucked!”
“As that note rippled outward like the toll of a bell,The crowd stirred to life, as if released from a spell.A murmuring began within that great throngAs a thousand throats cleared and burst into song.An old anthem rang out, borne aloft on the breeze:‘… the land of the brave and the land of the free.’”
Part III
“And that, my young friend, is the end of my tale.Now you’d better get home, you’re looking quite pale.It seems that our train has not yet come through,But like that young bellbird, there’re things you can do.”
“Speak up and speak plainly whenever you should,Stand up and defend the things that are good.”With these last words, Kooka fades in the gloom……Replaced by the mobile that hangs in your room.The sound of a chuckle floats through the doorAnd you tip-toe towards it, confused and unsure.
You find Mum laughing at something Dad saidAs you enter they greet you, “Hey Sleepyhead!We called you for dinner, but we don’t think you heard.When we went in, you were away with the birds.”
You look at them oddly; are they playing a joke?You didn’t imagine those words that they spoke.Mum reads your expression and gathers you in,You nestle your head up under her chin.Her voice murmurs softly from somewhere above:“No matter the squabble, in the end there is love.”