by Nick Gisburne
The twirly bird, the only friend she has,
Cavorts along the windowsill, outside,
With splendidly astonishing pizzazz,
Cajoling her, as always, to confide.
Too scared to speak without him, to confess,
She jettisons the traumas of the day.
He always nods, an effervescent ‘yes’,
When asked if he will take her pain away.
His feathers flash, beguiling, shiny, sleek.
She understands what every movement means.
Like her, he has a tiny, bloody beak,
But not the tubes, the needles, the machines.
He dances. Though her dreams he cannot mend,
They take the skies together, at the end.
