The Bird
It came to her on a morning that seemed like any other.
She opened her eyes to find it there, cupped in her small hand, warm and secret.
It was a bird,
A little thing,
Perhaps a starling or a wren,
Wrought in metals rare and fine,
The most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
For a long while she doted on it, this small and precious thing.
Night and day she held it tightly
And in her clutches it grew heavy.
By increments,
With stealth,
The treasure became a burden to her.
What did she know of such fine things,
Of golden claws and silver wings?
She found she could no longer sleep.
For how could she tend to such a fragile prize?
It would surely come to harm in her clumsy care.
She lay fearfully in the merciless grip of wakefulness,
Until one day she could bear it no longer.
She carried it to the bus stop in the rain and showed it to a thin pale man
Who waited in the lamp light,
Huddled against the damp and sombre morning.
“Is my bird not beautiful? See how her wings shine.”
“That is no bird, it is a trick of the light” he replied, and turned away.
She got on the bus and went to the market
Where she found a man with wild hair,
Clutching a bag full of green apples and staring at the sky.
“Is my bird not beautiful? See how neat her feathers are.”
“That is no bird, it is a stone. I have no use for it” he replied, and turned away.
She walked through the town until she came to a square
Where a young man with watery eyes sat quietly on an orange bench,
Watching the leaves.
She held out her hand.
“Is my bird not beautiful? See how her feathers tarnish. Will you not help me?”
“You cannot polish shadows” he replied.
She left the square and rode the dusty old tram down to the shore
Where a wiry man with round spectacles skimmed stones across the water.
She covered its face with a gloved hand.
“See how I have broken my bird. Will you not fix her?”
“That is but an old bleached bone” he replied.
She stumbled down the beach and walked to the end of the pier
Where a nimble-fingered man was tossing mouldy crusts to a steely-eyed gull.
Her voice was a tremulous whisper and the wind whipped it easily away
To be harassed by the boisterous waves below.
“I would not waste my crusts on such a thing as that. My crusts are for real birds” he replied.
The gull stared blankly at her,
Grey eyes dead and ugly,
Feathers dirty and torn,
Claws scaly and hard,
And she was moved suddenly to laugh.
She ran back along the pier.
“It is a real bird” she cried over her shoulder,
“And she says your crusts are poison.”
She ran back up the beach.
“Your bones are hollow like my bird” she cried,
“But you will never fly.”
She skipped alongside the tram and back across the square.
“My bird carries the sun into dark places” she cried,
“The shadows hold no fear for us.”
She span dizzily back through the market.
“My bird is a beautiful gem” she cried,
“Through the prism of her sight, all the world is a rainbow.”
She sprinted back up the hill beside the bus.
“No mere trickery brought my bird to me” she cried,
“Spun from the gossamer of ancient magic is she.”
She let go of her bird,
It sang into the sky, glinting and gleaming,
And danced after it, skipping in its wake
Laughing a harmony without end.
