The Afterlife

Some days I imagine it might really happen:
orifices oozing with ectoplasm,
Dorises with messages we can’t fathom;
transmigration’s been the fashion since ages ago
when Buddhists could make it to the sixth Bardo
or lose their many selves in Limbo.
You don’t think so?
Of course, it’s never on CNN, BBC or Sky,
just something glimpsed in the corner of an eye.

Like shortly after my sister-in-law passed on
my wife sat outside a Melbourne restaurant
where they’d fitted this special netting
to protect the food from birds pecking.
Yet a species of bird, reputed to be timid,
gained entrance and shared the food she was eating.
Then back home when she took our dog and children
to a play park in West Malvern, England,
the birds went mad, chattering, swooping,
flying off at crazy angles, then regrouping,
spooking the dog who jumped the fence round the park,
climbed the steps of the slide, slid down and barked.
Her sister loved birds. My wife loves birds.
Quod erat demonstrandum –
the truth is revealed in tandem.

Now, nobody would think of me as spiritual,
it’s the kind of thing I’ve always ridiculed;
but assuming that I drop dead first
I’m planning to come back as a bird.
A bird who’d be useful to my wife,
but I can’t decide which one would be right
to express my love and gratitude,
not just scare dogs and steal the food.
A peacock, perhaps, but all those eyes
are likely to make her paranoid;
a songbird to soothe her when she’s restless,
a chicken to lay her eggs for breakfast;
a mynah to call her mind to attention
if she’s perched on the brink of dementia.
Rook or raven, chaffinch, she likes a chat;
a cock – she’s probably had enough of that.
Penguins have always made her laugh
and when she’s bored I could be a lark;
starlings, sparrows, robins, pigeons;
I’m not used to making decisions,
so I left the final word to the missus
and asked her what bird I reminded her of,
what to come back as when I’ve shuffled off?
Straight from the neck she said Albatross.