In a house
A room
Dimly lit monotone
Grey
And thick with dust
Against the far wall is a tall marble fireplace
The mantelpiece is whitish grey
And cold
And merging with the thick powdery dust
I am drawn to the small and lifeless shape
Of a tiny bird
Moving closer
I see that it is the Robin that has shared my garden for so long!
Small
And dead
And still
I give out a cry
Oh no!
Then my father says:
No – it's alright
Look
And gently
Picking up the lifeless, drooping bird in his cupped hands
Its breast
Before my eyes
Infuses
And fills with blood!
Bright scarlet life!
Plump and red
It now stands
Shielded in my father's palms
Chirping
Filling the room
With its colour
Its warmth
Its song.