The Bird

Beneath my bell jar,

Behind my window,

Up in my ivory tower

I survey the idyll in front of me

And claim that it heals

That the soothing sight of sails,

The sparkling lights of dawn and dusk,

The sprinkles of children’s laughter

Work their magic in support of

The lies I tell myself about

Who I am and what I want.

I keep my distance;

Don’t dig too far

Nor look too close.

For truth be told there are things

That I don’t want to see;

Things that I don’t want to feel.

The bird, or perhaps it is an angel,

Lies still at the shallow edge of the water

And only seems to start to fly

When the tide comes in.

No intoxicating soar to the heavens now

But pushed and pulled, shoved and dragged with every wave:

Lumpen, bloody, battered.

Still beautiful.