Luck

I haven’t a job nor career.
Finances are tighter than ever.

Both fridges died on the day of the lunar eclipse.

Our house needs some major repairs.

My arthritic toe is killing me.

Luck
by Dorothea Mackellar

I wasn’t born (said the Seventh Son)
Sucking a silver spoon,
But I saw black swans the other night
Flying across the moon,
At dusk, on a rising moon.

I haven’t been lucky in love (he said)
Nor picked up a sixpence yet,
but I found the place where the seagulls sleep,
After the sun is set:
White drifts when the sun is set.

Though I missed some concerts and comedies
And balls in the usual way,
I’ve come on a mother platypus
With her babies out at play,
Velvety twins at play.

I wasn’t born (said the Seventh Son)
With a silver spoon to suck,
Nor bowled to church in a limousine,
But my christening brought me luck.
There are several sorts of luck.

But I know the unquestioning loyalty of an orange-footed swan (quack!).

I have witnessed battery hens tasting freedom for the first time.

At dawn I am roused by the pan flute-call of a pied butcher bird.

And I have the love of a good man.

There are several sorts of luck.