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 ground. Acorns have buried themselves in family soil and rejuvenated the need for circularity. This reflects on us and we line the pathway with truths.  

Beside a crooked fence, bruised soil smudges the base of granite rock, which crumbles slowly into salty grit around a Hawthorn tree split by lightening. Here the Rare birds have returned, nesting, flecked with red, preparing twigs and looking for happiness in the summer skies. The joy in their unfamiliar tune speaks of memory and we all join in at the chorus. Smiling with each breath, we sing the beautiful refrain as it warbles from our throats. Getting louder with each vibration.

With the night sky clearing, the salutations align and we fall into our dreams like misty rings around the moon. 


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