The Rare Birds >
In my dream the Rare birds sing of beauty and sorrow in spring. Falling in halves, flax clings to a fragile stem. I whisper a sigh to the full moon and scratch the palm of my hand. The cotton flute of white fibres dither in the changing breeze, releasing an enchanting spell that flavours the season and perfumes the air. In the bracken surrounds of this fragrant wood, some children step lightly across mossy stones scattered across the belly of a swollen stream. With rustle and twitch, the rare birds take to the high ground and hop nervously above the fray. Teetering on balance, innocent squeals and sharp intakes of air ring in unison as the boy and girl scramble through the fern and thistle. Their 'dare and do' echo through the trees and their spirit is absorbed by sap and nectar. But whom do they belong too? Can we borrow from them a remedy for the beauty and sorrow in spring? Golden light seeps through a canopy of oak and illuminates the hats of wee folk scattered on the gro