(Inspiration from York Art Gallery)
Dirty brown feathers,
on tired, old wings.
Resting now, dusty, detached.
The ticking has ceased, for
this time has run out.
No more beating heart,
beating sky, from beneath.
No more slippery air,
sliding through, falling down.
A home made of glass,
lined with leather, and light.
Where words are your nest,
misty relics your eggs.
Muffled now, hushed voices
sing for you, slow.
Then flutter away, in
hard, wooden steps.
