A Mother
Sits in her chair
And she waits
And she waits
You can say she patiently waits
She can have many thoughts
Where law and logic
Are almost taught
But then, from no-where
Out of her magic window
She gets to experience, a neverending view
A beautiful, admirable sight
Some may say mysterious
Some may say, it is just downright dumb; alright
Because it’s just a little birdie
And that single delectable crumb
She watches it
She doesn't take her eyes off it
In her quiet
Almost hidden, out of the way; corner
Street lights now throw off
A somewhat respectable, reflected beam
That bird is never afraid it seems
Not even afraid, that it might die; without a dream
It sees that small crumb of hope
From the depths of that insidious sky
And it never second guesses itself
Do you know why?
In all the loud sounds of night
And in all the sudden episodes, of dense fury and fright
It has so many longings
So many, feathered, and ruffled; feelings
It’s very own country
And its people, can attack it; at any given time
That bird miraculously watches
Every fading light
In the street
But it hasn’t once, no; not once
Taken its eyes off
That beautiful delicious crumb
Its appetite, says; curiously within
There it is, I see it, so yum
Many colourful leaves gather around it
The food scraps this time of year
Are at, an all time; low
Many would say
It’s a sad and sorrowful sight
For all concerned
A terrible evening show
But not for this little birdie
To watch it
The glad Mother sees
That this tiny little spec, of a bird; never tires
Of the big city lights
Or the divine pole views
No, not at all
Instead finding the simplest comfort, always due
In those hilltop, endured delights; of time so new
Even when the long
Unappealing year
Draws, to its very end
That Mother can breathtakingly see
That once, still; little birdie
Stretching its timely limbs, to be free
Pure, sacrad, gigantic wings
Flapping so honestly in the wind
Just to let the New Year
Sweep all over it, and tantalising, begin
Its ancestors lived
So many moons ago
It had heard incredible stories
Many, many, more stories
Of their struggle
Of their families will, enclosed exquisitely tight
Those tales so simply told
The little birdie knew
What it had to do to fight
As it gazed, exclusive; and lonely through the haze
And morning dew
For a moment, its little senses seemed glazed over, blue
Hurtfully exposed, imprisoned; in the modern world faze
Or should I reconstruct that, was it; the new world craze
But then it realised, in a split second
There were gifted trees, tall, growing trees, everywhere
Branches, fringe benefits, twigs
Owls, protecting, hooting in the night
That birdie could dream in divine flight
This disciplined behaviour, could raise it up
To tremendous heights
There’s a certain beauty
This grand Mother acknowledged
As she watched that birdie’s plight
As she sat there
And she watched
And she waited, on that lonesome
Fear, inspired; dark night
She noticed that all the beauty came
From not, the bird’s; unique presence
Or that valuable solemn crumb
Nor was it, the focus, the bird needed
To make it never ever, come undone
No, in the Mother's promising recollections
It wasn’t the beauty of truth
Or as much, as she would of liked, or desired
It wasn’t, the beauty of love
No, not at all
It wasn’t the beauty of all that happiness, or intended joy
Or the companion word, sharing peace
No, not the glowing, challenging moon
That lovingly shone down from above, for everyone to enjoy
Or even the mention, of frollicking pristine life
Exact serenity, or glimpses of glistening harmony
Gracefully chosen without the strife
No, no, no
It was something more powerful
In the push and the shove of this full, worrying life
No, It wasn’t any, of those above; at all
Not even the immense beauty of heavenly eternity
Or the twinkling stars ruling with holy permanency
As the Mother watched,
That precious little birdie
Pause
For a minute (my-newt) second
And then, take fabulous time; to wonder
Her mind couldn’t help
But join her heart, and her inquisitive soul
And gallantly wander
Imagining in the stroll, the exact treasure of this beauty
As she heard the loud, deathening cracks of thunder
And then gradually, or religiously she realised
It was the beauty
She wanted, for her own innocent children
The beauty that would climax them all
The beauty
Are you ready for it?
The beauty
Yes, the beauty to just, be able; to 'survive' this dangerous world
Did you get it
SURVIVE
That Mother watched
In unquestioning splendour
How that little birdie
Ate that enormous crumb
Then in the mist
Of that fanfare morning
The little birdie performed
What was like a memory
A giant, everlasting performance
Like a wish, intriguingly born
It was so swift
So smoothe
Swan Lake approved
The heart beat, ever so fast
Like when two hearts meet
Dive in like sharks and let off sparks
The fireworks of general appreciation
Dedication, underlying devotion
In such a better response
Reaction, divinely commenced
The love in the air was spotless
It drew up infrangible all around
Unproblematic
Oh, the feeling, the glorious feeling
Left that Mother kneeling
There was so much to be grateful for
This new day, brisk; and gently dawning
The sensual world
Was now peeling off
It's severe, fear; applied skin
And instead, it was opening up
Exploring and commencing to plot
A heavenly comeback
The earth majestically shook
All around the land blossomed again
Voices in the mind understood, never to be mistook
That this faith, in future life
Wasn't just a remedy but it was extremely good
Channelling forgiveness
And super solid, like that; trees surviving wood
The Mother watched the birdie
As it danced one last ballad
And then remarkably flew off
As simple as that
Towards all that warmth
In its new, awaiting sun; of trust
Copyright Wendy Brady
February 10th 2011
