The tangled tendrils of wisteria
Lay matted on the ground
The churring of the bower bird
Sings to the mate he’s found
Among broken fronds and twisted twigs
Shines his orange-yellow head
Eyes as luminous as the fungi
Growing  upon the forest bed
 
He gazes at the plumage of his mate
She’s dressed in muted feathers
An olive-brown lustre down her spine
Wings beat softly, showing pleasure
She parades her buff-tone belly
He wheezes in reply
Spreads his wings upon the shoots and leaves
and lifts towards the sky
 
Beyond the branchlets of the bower
And the gullied trees below
He hopes her feathers follow him
Wherever he may go