You have to love those scrub-fowl chooks

seen scratching in the forest’s nooks.

Like Robin and his Merry Men

they roam the jungle, cock and hen.

They’re dressed in dowdy blue and brown

while orange legs are bright low down.

And if you spot one, notice that

it wears a quiff-like Sherwood hat!

They build big nests of forest leaves;

communal giant compost heaps

to bury eggs and keep them warm

and hide them from the jungle’s harm.

And in the process, make a mess

of scattered leaves, continuous

that cover paths and walking trails

initiating human wails.

But most of all I love their calls

that echo through the wooded halls.

To some, it sounds like strangled kids

that shriek for help before they’re missed.

But night and day, their yodelling

is interspersed with chuckling

that signifies they’re happy chooks

despite their rather funny looks.

The hasty Hibiscus has burst into flower.

A glamorous beauty that seems a bit rude.

Its bloom only lasts about twenty four hours

before it will wilt to a shrivelling prude.

Its pistil’s so long, like it’s poked out its tongue

to grab the attention of passers-by.

The tip has a group of five stigmas it’s hung

to catch any pollen before it will die.

Along the pink sides of its long pistil style

the anthers hold pollen that’s yellow and bright.

Like sparks flying off from a Catherine-wheel

or sparkler lit on a dusky night.

With silky-soft petals in reds, white or gold

they need to attract pollinators for hire.

Impatient, imposing.  They’re terribly bold.

Like flowery dragons all breathing fire.