There was no lightening of the hue
Of the grey-skies morning, nor
Sudden stilling of the wind
On the day they came.
Three pied hornbills on white parapet,
Chalk-pale beaks surely too large
For them to fly; therefore
They have fallen from skies
Other than our own, where horned beaks
And other things are possibilities.
Only then the world stood still
As they pecked the leaves of the rubber plant,
Lolled eyes at the orchid blooms,
Alien plants of our world.
When they flew they left behind
A swish in the laden air, like waves,
The soft sound within a shell,
The memory of awe and the question:
Why did they come? Swooping down
From beyond skies, bearing signs
I must read.
On grey- skies mornings like that one
I believe they came to say
That I too can be blessed,
That life can bring gifts
From the sky, unasked