This time of lock-down has come to visceral life for me when I turn the pages of some of the hundred notebooks on my shelves as I look out of my window at the green of my garden and my ancient trees.
These days I am
more conscious than ever of the birds, both in my trees and up in the sky:
enticing images of freedom now as I see and hear them in my confinement.
In one of my
notebooks I found this poem called The Birds written in 2002 about the different world inhabited by birds. These days I think I took for granted their sense of freedom.
Now I have resurrected re-read this poem again and have polished it just a bit.
Here it is.
The Birds
A
line of birds scratches its way
across
the gunmetal grey
of
an April afternoon.
Its
waivering form begins
to
evolve
into
a double V.
Their
direction is North.
They
discover their way by
following
their inner tick
and
escaping the sultry fog
of
unseasonable warmth
above
the surging bulbs.
Original version 29th December
2002
Polished April 2020
Thanks for sharing this awesome post! The current pandemic situation has its advantages, we can do what we did not have enough time for before. Good luck
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