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
All is dark. Claustrophobic. All but the unicorn.
Though caught in stone, the unicorn positively radiates — light and motion pulse through and over its rearing form. Its front legs churn the darkness, and its forelock, mane, and tail are caught and curled and tumbled by unseen currents. The tip of its scrolled horn reaches 10 feet high, and its dark eyes shine. Here and there, its paint is worn, burnished by the touch of admirers long forgotten. It is a magnificent creation, so extraordinarily lifelike, it must surely spring from the massive plinth on which it is mounted.
Few remember the unicorn. Fewer still see it — down here, so far below — and those lost souls that do, no longer bear witness. They have forgotten the unicorn’s splendor, have become immune to its beauty and magic. Clothed in their own tattered shadows, they shuffle past with the brims of their hats pulled down to shield against the unicorn’s light.
Work quickly. Wedge the pry bar beneath the broken stone floor and the plinth’s heavy base. Curl, bodily, over and grip the metal lever. Tight-fisted, teeth grit, sweating — lean fully against the bar’s length. Hear the gritty scrape and separation of stone and metal. Feel the dull-eyed gazes of shuffling passersby slew ‘round.
The statue shifts.
Heave again.
And again.
In full-bodied, sweat-inducing, gut-wrenching, necessary effort — heave.
Break the statue free.
Restore the magic.
Release the unicorn.
— 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
Featureless room. Monochrome gray. A 10-foot square cell. No door. Lacking windows. A chamber deprived, depriving. Soundless. Scentless. Without texture. But for the rectangular hole — a 3-foot wide horizontal slot, 9 inches high, 8 feet up. Light drifts and gently slips past the rectangle’s hard edges. Shadows pass. Hint of movement beyond. The rift darkens, fills. Squares of fabric choke the slot, tumble — edge over edge — into the cell. One after another. Rough weave of fabric; rust orange. Another and another. The pace of their entry increases. Rapidly, the chamber fills, becomes a landscape of heavy, rumpled rust. Ankle deep. Calf deep. Knee deep. Still, the slot coughs up more. Waist deep. Ribs deep. Shoulders burdened. Lungs restricted. The once-gray cell, transformed. Sunset hues consume, bury.
— C.Birde, 5/18
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