FEATHERS

Some small feathers leave the nest

and fly to other climes,

away from warmth of home

and roam on other beaches 

finding stones and weeds and sand

to cling to as they go,

each whim of breeze caressing,

tearing them loose, 

free,

and yet still bound by gravity.

This feather once was bright

in colours rich and bold, 

it danced in summer's breath,

in autumn with the leaves, impressed,

in winter cold and stiff, it froze,

and in the spring all life around,

it rose born up by one pale innocent rose,

it tried to bloom again

but winter's fingers had exposed it 

to the rot and mould,

its colours now no longer bold

but faded grey, its day now done, 

its life once youth begun,

now old.

It lay among the junk of life's gathered tears

and there decayed for ever grey

among the broken stones and clay.