A broken battered bird
limp winged and misty eyed
Nestled itself in the bed
of the grass.
Its dry sagging tounge
lay bare and burning under
the unforgiving sun.
Its wings moved ever so
slightly, strained and pained.
Grounded it just lay there,
accepting death,
waiting silently in the grass.
Its feathers blowing in the
wind.
From my window
I watched the slow death,
as it faded away with each
slow patient breath.
I wanted to do something,
wanted to give back its flight.
Watching death is different
from watching life,
This death seemed so peaceful.
Later that day, after the bird
had finally passed away.
I buried it beside the pet
rabbit, and fish.
gave it a little cross,
made from a cereal packet,
as my little boy
cried.
He nows sleeps with its feather
under his pillow.
Even in death
comfort can be found.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dead-birds-feather-offers-comfort-to-a-young-b/
