They watch, wait, watch, wait
for a flurry of flamboyant feathers,
a flight, a flabbergasting screech,
for a fleeting moment's wonder,
a fizzy sense of novelty and exuberance.
They watch, wait, watch through
glasses that close the distances;
jaded souls, stifled yawns, they wait,
to sight-see some mesmerizing avian
to transport them to the greens,
across the hills and valleys, to sunsets.
Reality is a drab-coloured bird, and
we poets bird-watchers, looking through
binoculars and stained glasses hoping
for a glimpse at the rainbows in its feathers,
to hark at the melodies in its blatant tones,
to feel the silk in its rugged flesh and bones
to blow in life-breath to its sleeping soul...
© Sana Rose 2020