A scribbler toasts the ibis

These sacred birds, rising from the papyrus

of my tablecloth, approximate flight.

Symbol of Thoth, God of wisdom,

body of a man, head of an ibis. 

Beneath them a hieroglyph reminds me that

Thoth (embossed ibis) is a protection over me. 

God of scribes, moon and magic too. 

Its beak a crescent, its back gibbous.

I am cloud-skipping, my ticket in a glass 

half-full. What seems might well pass.

The new moon a suggestion. Full circle

there somewhere, yet to be. Like script.

I dream of Egyptian flora, fauna, heat. Forget

how they’ve spun from printed cotton, cheap.

Writing is a prompt, maybe a promise too. 

Semblances seduce. Confidence tricks.

My mood wanes. No longer so convincing, this wedge,

this ragged rendition. I reach out, refill.

Writing is a remedy, warned King Thamus, for reminding 

not remembering. It will stupefy us with false-knowledge.

What of this ibis chick darting up the stem

of my wine glass, mirror imaged, seeking

new horizons after extirpation. Drainage, greed,

ignorance, we have forced the ibis to migrate, rebrand

seeking like an unleashed alter-ego to escape

and soar on spirit thermals. Will it take wing?

From swamp-wader to city-centre scavenger,

culled to appease tourists in Australia, but also…

Will it take wing. Shall I fly too? 

Yes, to new horizons! I toast the blessèd ibis

loved, not as a God but as the underdog: bin-chicken

tip-turkey, totem of our propensities, our facile duplicities 

I toast. It falls. Pigment beside my plate.