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
Bravado