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Birds

Birds
 
a small grey bird has begun to visit
he pokes his little beak
over the white timber frame
at the bottom of my sitting room door
most days he stops by
just for a moment
pecks on the glass to get my attention
then waddles across the deck
his delicate birdie feet
clicking softly on the weathered timber         
 
birds bring me comfort – consolation
a few days after the death of my son
I crumpled keening in the garage
I could not find a sketch he had drawn
a small black bird with an orange beak
stood in the doorway watching me
unafraid of my shrieking
as I foraged manically
through the remnants of a life that ended too soon
 
each year on the anniversary of our son’s death
my husband and I would take a bottle of French champagne
to Squeaky Beach on Wilsons Prom
where we had scattered his ashes
we laughed – cried
shared stories of our boy
as we sipped his favourite bubbly
and each year on the almost deserted winter beach
a little black bird with an orange beak
would leave little birdie footprints in the sand
as he wandered between us and the ocean
 
on the morning after my husband’s death
unable to sleep
I stumbled through the sand at Half Moon Bay
searching for solace in the coming of dawn
as black turned to grey I heard birdsong
I looked toward the sound
and saw two black birds
soaring together
dipping and diving as day began
 
the new bird in my life
brings with him peace
a sense that soon
it will be my turn to soar
 
Tricia 04/2011
 

 
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