Jan 2020
The birds who talk to one’s mind seem only to flutter at first, but then in time, speak aloud in tongues and songs as they reach toward their zenith sky places.
Black dots do appear on a never new horizon; slight delicate wings only twist and break, as worn and scarred beaks fight and flight the elements of time and mind.
Feather filled cushion walls seem to harbour some rest and restraint, but then the cuckoo calls from its lofty view to mock you, flock around you and brood some more.
A nest of twigs peck and pull at one’s soft skull, as a caged mind can only nestle within. Your blunted talons scratch for a desperate release, to rise and swoop to fledge and feed.
The birds who talk fills one’s mind with a picture of flight, the vast freedom view, the warming incubate glow of home, with its high-pitched songs of the new and the old.
Black dots do appear on a never new horizon; slight delicate wings only twist and break, as worn and scarred beaks fight and flight the elements of time and mind.
Feather filled cushion walls seem to harbour some rest and restraint, but then the cuckoo calls from its lofty view to mock you, flock around you and brood some more.
A nest of twigs peck and pull at one’s soft skull, as a caged mind can only nestle within. Your blunted talons scratch for a desperate release, to rise and swoop to fledge and feed.
The birds who talk fills one’s mind with a picture of flight, the vast freedom view, the warming incubate glow of home, with its high-pitched songs of the new and the old.
