At the stone circle’s head,
amongst the strips and slips
and tags of paper
fluttering
in the Hawthorn Tree,
I set my wish —
Words scrawled
on a lined sheet folded,
shaped and creased —
A paper crane,
with a prayer for Peace
nested at its
heart.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Sitting
in restless light
I write — one, two, three lines…
Pause… and drop treats for the locals…
Repeat.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Count
the shades of green.
Consider —
shifts of light,
and breeze-stirred
leaves…
Count again.
Again.
Until birdsong fills
that over-muscled organ
secured beneath
protective ribs.
Until the memory
surfaces —
This
is
the way.
— C.Birde, 6/18
The air
so sweet in June,
perfumed, anointed in
mock orange and honeysuckle
bloom — breathe.
— C.Birde, 6/18
She wears
her curl-tipped
spurs
discreetly tucked
beneath her frock’s
hem —
just in case.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Ireland —
misted isle
of perpetual green,
slate-boned and
clad
in moss and fern and
wild foxglove,
beclouded
with sheep —
In Ireland,
I did not dream…
Ireland
was
the dream.
— C. Birde, 6/18
Fuchsia boom of
azalea bloom —
explosion of
day-glo colors,
tattered
by wind and
pelting rain,
petals bruised
and gone
in a day.
— C.Birde, 5/18
For no one
no one else
would I return
once the door has
shut
the lock thrown
but for you
only you
would I retrace
the shadows of
my steps
along the bricks
climb the stairs
anew
I hear you call
return for
you.
— C.Birde, 5/18
Filled —
with light and
life and
magic.
Each leaf a
cellular agreement,
an exchange
of breath.
Filled,
refilled —
chloro-filled.
— C.Birde, 5/18
Overhead,
above –
an earthward
tumble
of song and
smoke,
d
o
w
n
through budding
trees.
Two small birds,
a palm’s worth
each…
Beating wings.
Knitted,
knotted feet.
Rivals –
singing,
calling,
falling
d
o
w
n.
For one fleet
moment,
I might
be crowned,
adorned in
feathered,
kinetic
strife.
— C.Birde, 5/18