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


while fluttering

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

See again!

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

#Poetry #Art #CreativeWriting #Birds #Nature