The Flash of Orange

Written in response to the oft-quoted remark that nothing rhymes with "orange"

One summer’s day,
I chanced to stray
Below sweet Ballycorringe,
And by the lake,
I took a break,
And paused to peel an orange.

And as I chewed
That luscious food,
My mind began to porringe,
And in the bushes
By the rushes,
I spied a flash of orange.

“This cannot be!”
(Said I to me,
My neck-hairs stiff and lorringe)
“For I have heard
About this bird,
Bright-painted green and orange.”

“It is the famed
And long-acclaimed
Far-fabled Arctic florringe.
There’s no mistaking
It’s breathtaking
Plume of green and orange!”

As though in death,
I held my breath,
And watched it scour and forringe.
From hawthorn twig
To holly sprig,
I watched that flash or orange.

With garbled song,
It hopped along,
Untroubled by disporringe.
Why had it flown
So far from home,
This ball of green and orange?

And then it sighed,
Keeled o’er and died,
No more would it concorringe.
I watched it break
The still glass lake
In one last flash of orange.

And now I’m old,
My heart feels cold,
And shortly I’ll exporringe.
But still my eyes
Peruse the skies
To spot that flash of orange.

And when I go,
Above? Below?
To Paradise or Thorringe,
I hope that I
Once more will spy
That fabled flash of orange.