To see others as hollow shells
Free from personality or thought,
This is the society so many breed;
A world full of dolls.
To not see the tears;
The tremulous worry of loneliness,
Of wanting only to be happy.
Look past the language;
And see what lies beneath:
(Image courtesy of Canankk on deviantart.com)
This will be hard to believe, but I assure you it’s true.
I heard a ticking from a tree deep within a dark wood. I can’t remember why I was there, or how I’d even got there? I like to think it was fate.
The ticking came from somewhere high above, so I began to climb. Up and up, higher and higher I toiled until I poked my head out into a cobalt sky. And there, sat atop the highest tree in that wood was a nest. The nest sparkled in reflective beauty even in the dim light, as it was made entirely of bits of metal: scraps of cans, a knife and fork, a wire brush and a myriad other strange metallic objects held together by strips of tin foil.
I almost fell out of the tree, I was so shocked! But the ticking led me to scramble my way over to that jumble of a creation. And there, sat in the middle of it, was two rusting eggs. Sprawled in-between that curious sight, a rusting bird made of iron sheets and iron scraps all tied together with fine wiring: a bird that ticked even in death.
I don’t know why, or how I did it, but I began to cry, not tears, but oil. The black specks became a torrent and soon that little metal bird was covered.
I watched it helpless for an age, until, as the day faded to night the little bird twitched. I thought I’d imagined it until the little thing kicked it’s legs, then flicked its wings and stood up. The bird eyed me, then turned its attention to the eggs. It tapped them repeatedly with its little iron beak, but all that happened was that the eggs shed their flaky coating.
Eventually, the little creature stopped, bowed to me, and with a creak took off.
I don’t remember climbing down, walking home, or even going to bed, just waking the next day to a ticking.
I lifted my pillow to two metal, hatched eggs. Two tiny replicas of their parent hopped from iron foot to iron foot. The two looked at me, bowed, then with a squeaking flew from my bed and out of the open bedroom window.
I know you won’t believe me, but I promise you it’s all the truth. And, although I’ve never seen any of them ever again, I hear their ticking in the depths of the night when I’m alone. Unless, of course, it’s my own clockwork heart?
(Image courtesy of Apheline on deviantart.com)
Well, according to WordPress this is post number 1001. This could be fate, as not only am I amazed by that fact, but I saw something in my garden today that I have been waiting nearly twenty years to get a picture of. There is a family of Sparrowhawks somewhere nearby who whizz past frequently. But today one stopped to eat for nearly half an hour on my fence. I felt sorry for the little bird in its grip, but I may never get to see such a sight up close ever again.
Talons hooked in my fence,
What is that you grip so tightly?
Who have you pinioned to wooden panels?
Do I see feathers at your beak;
Blood dripping from your deadly feet?
Predatory you observe me,
As I, in turn, observe you.
Did you make your kill swiftly, cleanly?
I hope so,
For my lawn is no place for carnage.
Yet regal beauty you display in aquiline features,
And I realise with regret,
I may never see you again.
PS Thank you everybody for reading my work. You make my day, every day.