Poem#13 The Bird

As a child, I recall coming home with my family

finding a dead bird lying on the ground below a

large window.

Its neck was broken, my Dad advised , hurrying

to remove it from our sight, but somehow handing

me a handkerchief. Why would a bird break its neck

flying? I pondered until Dad came into the house.

Learning that it had flown into the large window,

I expected that the glass would be removed to stop

any other bird doing the same.

Can birds be so unhappy that they kill themselves

by flying into window panes? What worries did they

have, were they bullied by their babies, had they no

home, did they have to eat food they hated?

I imagined a cemetery for birds with broken necks

who had despaired of life. I wept for many nights,

knowing I, too, would gladly fly into a pane of glass,

treasuring my Dad’s handkerchief.

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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