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The Feathered Hat
I worry myself into a grisly stew
over a qualification in teaching, because my stringing words together like a popcorn necklace, doesn’t pay. Rory tells me an old Chinese proverb:
He with the most feathers in his hat
gets a sore neck
and I think I must want a hat made
of feathers – a peacock’s brilliant green with their centred orange suns that dance as my head moves, like seaweed in a swell, if only my neck, wrung like a chicken’s who just will not lay, could hold the darn thing up.
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