Quack

Quack

In the pond’s hushed lilac hush,
a feathered friend breaks the hush with a quack—
a short, bright note that ripples the water,
splitting the still‑blue like a silver crack.

The mallard dips, its emerald head
tilts to the sky, then dives beneath the reeds,
sending concentric rings that fade and spread,
while dragonflies hover, awaiting their creeds.

Yet “quack” also whispers of old‑time charlatans,
those silver‑tongued mountebanks of yore,
who sold their tonics in market‑town stalls,
promising cures that could never restore.

They’d strut about in waistcoats of frayed tweed,
claiming miracles with a confident grin,
while the wary crowd would shake their heads,
knowing the remedy was nothing but tin.

So whether it’s the duck’s joyful call
or the dubious tonic of a wandering quack,
the word carries a splash of bright colour—
a British tableau of nature and lack.

Let us cherish the genuine quack of the pond,
and laugh at the false—both part of life’s knack.
For in every ripple, in every refrain,
lies the simple truth that we seek and lack.