She cupped a small bird in her hand today,
Born this year, feathers downy, silk soft.
She encourages flight, holds it aloft,
So warm, weak, it trembles; end of May.
Her chair, she wheels along smooth garden paths,
A feather from the soft downy bird wafts
The bird is now in the hayloft.
She wishes it well and bids it stay.
Quietude, rest and warmth work their magic,
The creature stills, in silent repose calm.
The scented hay appears a balm,
The gentle gauche girl returns the next day.
The bird has flown away, no drama.
The girl in the chair and her protégé.
Polly Robinson © 2012