On the table
there lies a book,
opened at its centre, spine-broken.
From that arched spine two wings spread
adoring of the sun playing across its surface. Wait!
The book is a bird, newly-rested, yawning with
wings ornamented by a hundred tiny flecks.
No black border around them but a
white band, dove-white
and now – Look! The wind, making duet trio,
tickles the feathers and flutters them
a tiffling sound, a coy nasal laugh
and its silken skin is
steeped in solar
feathers dance with gaiety.
And when the wind, and the sun,
grow tired of their games, they leave
and follow to frolic with some other flighting fancy
the bird is no longer
bird, but freshly-sprung,
spring creature, friend of man and
plaything to nature. When reader leaves,
nature takes her turn. But when
he returns, the book
already lying open,
‘If art reflects life, then it does so with special mirrors’
- Bertolt Brecht
‘Art is the lie that makes us see the truth’
- Pablo Picasso