Poetry Perch is Good

The World Between the Words
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​