Perch is Good
Leaning against rusty cage bars
Contemplating the fallen seed.
So much waste for only brief joy.
Pecking, rearranging sparse plumage,
Feathers dulled now, a cooler covering.
Draughts chill these days.
Mirrors are avoided,
Boxed at with weak ire.
Nobody rings my bell.
Days in the sun warms
Half-remembered songs
From chipped brittle beak.
Though undercover quietness
Soothes peaceful sleep.
Chirruping quietly now,
Once I fluidly squawked.
No one to hear my call,
I grip my perch with hooked
Claws, shuffling sideways into
Time, thinking how I flew
Through life in flurries
Of colour and confidence.
Not knowing my resting-place
Would become my dying-place,
I take what's good
And hold on.
Paul Whybrow
Leaning against rusty cage bars
Contemplating the fallen seed.
So much waste for only brief joy.
Pecking, rearranging sparse plumage,
Feathers dulled now, a cooler covering.
Draughts chill these days.
Mirrors are avoided,
Boxed at with weak ire.
Nobody rings my bell.
Days in the sun warms
Half-remembered songs
From chipped brittle beak.
Though undercover quietness
Soothes peaceful sleep.
Chirruping quietly now,
Once I fluidly squawked.
No one to hear my call,
I grip my perch with hooked
Claws, shuffling sideways into
Time, thinking how I flew
Through life in flurries
Of colour and confidence.
Not knowing my resting-place
Would become my dying-place,
I take what's good
And hold on.
Paul Whybrow