Feather

Sitting here in the wood;

I see a little ruffled, angry bird

And she doesn’t mean that other bird any good.

The air is heavy with threats and breath of life

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather, I’m down like you.

 

A cup-shaped nest, hidden well,

Lined with feathers from her own breast

And she’d die to protect them, I can tell.

The flowers close. They breathe in and hold till dawn

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m down like you.

 

Soft they float down, shed in pain.

The peacock postures, flaunting his,

But each one gets washed away by rain.

A feather- light caress breathes upon my memory

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m down like you.

 

Yet there is hope for beast and man.

We soar into the mystical states:

Our feathers bear us up, for what else can?

And in my mind I rest on feathers, breathing calm,

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m warm like you.

 

 

The Wild Hunt And The Bell

The Wild Hunt raced down the hill on their powerful horses, to the place where the bell that was in the wrong story lay in the long grass.

Without a word they smashed the bell, and a dull DONG rang out across the wild wood, followed by a splintering thud.

But smashing it hadn’t mended the tear that leaked greenery down into the story underneath, and let a little jagged void space seep in and lick around the tree roots. A ribbon of vacuum threaded across the riverbank like black stitches.

The broken bell fell through the tear, and then from its own story it could be heard ringing once again.

My 100-word stories also appear on ‘The Drabble’ blog.