Feeding a bird

Mike Bell/ May 9, 2021/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

I have small hands – worn
down by prayers & design
hours – neither connected
in as much – Oily starlings
peck at my feet – My nails
& skin declare my ageing –
what I see is continuation
of childhood habits – Fifty
years earlier I split a flock
[not atoms] with my dad’s
double-barrel shotgun – a
lever of weight against my
skinny shoulder [followed
by that barge of recoil] – A
wren flits in a thorn-whorl
of bramble [tiny] – I’d hold
it in one hand & not crush
her [even with a history of
killing by sleight of hands]

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