She’d cupped a small bird in her hand,
born this year, feathers silky soft,
she encouraged flight, held it aloft,
so warm, so weak, it trembled.
She wheeled her chair along smooth garden ways,
a feather dropped, wafted soft.
The bird stayed in the hayloft.
Quietude, rest and warmth worked their magic,
the creature stilled, silently calm,
the scented hay seemed to act as a balm.
The gentle gauche girl returned the next day,
no drama, the bird had flown away.
The girl in the chair and her protégé.
Polly Robinson © 2015