A tiny speck, growing fast,
so straight, direct that it must be
the first it took, and now its last.
Sobered, sad, feeling bad for riding
like a maniac, and hiding my eyes
from accusing skies.
Empty accusing skies.
The rub comes, as it always does.
with shock and dread.
Taking my helmet from my head.
It is there.
On me.
Neck broke.
Dead.
Sweet.
Young.
Complete.
Dead complete.
Pushed between my legs
and tank, unseen and thank
my lucky stars that mother birds
don't stand accusing of their loss.
It's bill, still with the bright,
that makes both of its parents fight
to feed unruly chicks
and guard them in a nest of sticks.
So find a bag to wrap it in,
shed quiet tears,
for this new sin.
Glance quickly past
the stinking summer bin.
Rotten with sloth and waste,
and life gone bad.
Where ?
Somewhere that will care.
For a new soul taken,
a wee heart broken.
Sorrow unspoken.
Anwoth,
whispers, down among the stones,
Plants crown the walls,
and, in summer glory
the voices of the dead
gently talk.
Just listen.
They need you.
To hear.
Anwoth,
if you take a look,
hidden in the quiet,
beneath an evergreen.
Beneath THE evergreen.
a stone that says.
A Baby Bird.
I read He marks the sparrows fall,
so should We all.
This happened late june 2010. At the time I made it into a bit of a jokey story to try and deal with feelings it all stirred up.
I felt so terrible, killing a small sweet thing because doing 100 miles an hour matters.
There are graves that pour sorrow out to you, there at Anwoth, and some that speak quiet, but make you feel strong. There is no darkness there at all.
I dream of dying in the road, as a result of a big night time bike smash.
Probably deserve it, hope it's quick as the poor bird!