It lies lifeless, on a soft bed of pine needles.
It could fit, snugly in the palm of my hand.
Its wings are tucked, cowering in death.
I'm overcome with emotion I can't understand.
In its beak is a single feather, its own
Pure white and young, I wish it was sleeping
But it's not, it's stone cold and covered in frost
Only when tears freeze on my face do I realise I'm weeping
Autumn/Winter 2015
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
