In memory of Budgie B. Bird

In memory of Budgie B. Bird


Where your cage hung there is a space

of transparent lines and abandoned angles.

A square of time has emptied its pockets.


The turban of song

you wound around us

has unravelled

and trails out over the garden,

over hopping-sad bugs and glum flowers,

through bald gum trees with their black rook cries

and barren nests.


A crowd of inconsolable clouds gathers.

The impossible sky has a hole in it,

the shape of a small, blue bird that passed through it

on her journey to a well-worn perch

in the place of Nothing Doing,

Everything Sung.








Jan FitzGerald