The seventh day

Fred:
eyes that see the world
dance, feet that know the rhythm
of the heavenly spheres

Ginger:
grace, and lines to match
the master; humour and skill
in perfect balance

Cyd:
sex, poise, supreme skill,
never just a partner, but
a star who partners

Gene:
not for me, but hard
to ignore his peerless power,
masculine strength

John:
when dance in film seems
dead, a child of rock and roll
thrusts back the fever

Billy:
an electric film
breaks open a world for those
immune to tutus

Darcy:
bravely recreates
the golden age — heroic
failure; apt tribute

The sixth day

From Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri,
they make their yearly way to pastures old.
In mating pairs in summer months they fly,
by stages from southern warmth to northern cold.
They try to avoid the eagle's greedy eye,
and fly their perfect V three thousand miles.
And once they nest they still must try
to protect their chicks from bears, or foxes' wiles.

The fifth day

While mortals sleep, the would-be immortals train,
lap after chlorine tinged lap,
press after press, curl after curl,
hoping to turn the Olympic rings to gold.

The fourth day

The gigglebird has learnt to please
by laughing at the peacocks' jokes.
The flirtybird knows how to tease
and get her way with weak-willed folk.
The dutybird works hard each day
with little time for laughter,
while babybird has learnt that she
will always be looked after.

The third day

Coq au Vin suggests the 1980s.
Gastropubs were few and far between,
chicken in a basket was, if not luxury,
at least a respectable evening meal out.

But Coq au Vin in those days was
exotic – hard to believe, I know –
anticipated with relish, and usually
disappointing. We had not yet

grown used to foreign foods –
aloo gobi, souvlaki, even enchilladas
could have been animal, vegetable or mineral,
a dance, a disease or a death-watch beetle.

At least our schoolboy French could cope
with Coq au Vin, enjoying the saucy mix
of bacon, bird and button mushrooms,
of dish and double entendre.

Oeufs en cocottes suggest a later time,
when bistro was a more familiar word,
and ramekins were recognised as not
the little folk that Dorothy met in Oz.

A dish for those who've learned that food is more
than quantity; that shoving it all in a pan
is not the height of culinary skill.
Suddenly food became a branch of art,

and the adventure of a little light delight
in its own white munchkin dish
seemed worth the time or money,
and 'cocotte' was not a word we learnt at school.

But now each high street boasts a dozen different
cuisines – a poulet won't be just français,
but Provençal, or Bretonique, jaune grillé,
and Madame Bonne Femme must compete

with Yassa, Jerk, Tandoori, Fajita,
all laying out their wares for us to choose.
No longer caged by simple, stringy fare
we freely range over the chicken fields.

The second day

She had that grim, taut expression,
common to little Britons abroad –
us against the world, no tapas when
each bar has bacon, egg and chips on tap
for those who take excess baggage
even to the Andalusian coast.

And so she found her table and sat down.
But this was not a Spanish bar –
the crowds had come to bask, not in the sun,
but in the glow of prices cut in two –
the sales, the suits and sheets and shoes.

And she was fraught. Her tired, searching eyes seemed dull.
Her daughter's five year-old tongue chirped merrily,
but mum could barely fake a kind reply.
Her eyes roved round, returned to the little girl,
then roved again. The season of joy and peace
had turned, it seemed, to duty, pressure, pain.

But then her eyes found what they sought.
A young man took his place across from her,
his daughter grinned at Dad's return,
and slowly Mum came back to life.
Those tired eyes grew brighter now,
the furrowed brow grew smooth, and soon
an unexpected smile lit up the day.

Not all marriages are drained of love –
not all families are fueled by pique.
These two, at times perhaps against the world,
were for each other, and it showed.

The first day

Funny that two of the greatest wordists,
lexicographers, verbophiles,
should have been a Fowler and a Partridge.

The Fowler, checking the twittering words,
charting our modern usage, with no time
for absurd old rules; a wise old bird.

And the Partridge, that saucy bird,
standing for slang, rejoicing in choice curses,
always game for the gutter words,
the forces' favourite phrases.

How funny, how fitting, for words are birds
uneasily caged and carpeted, best left
to fly, but sometimes needing the fowler's jesses.

So beautiful

you go about your business day to day
and days are filled with paper cuts and cold sores,
and shoulders don't get less arthritic
and empty pages don't get filled with golden words

then out of a clear blue sky swoops down
a bird of paradise with tiger lily feathers,
a living origami fold, precise and unique
so beautiful, so beautiful