London Tales: A Sparrow. © A poem I wrote is contained in a song. Recorded in Minnis Bay, Kent & produced by Jennifer Maidman, who played hand drums and Guitar, with Annie Whitehead, Trombone, and me, vocals. The film by Margaret Kemp.
A London Sparrow. A metaphor for the migrant, fleeing the dangers of War. Flood. Famine and Poverty.
He is a torn and tattered thing – a tiny bird, with a broken wing.
A beating heart which flutters in his breast.
He flies, he tries to reach the stars.
His body has no strength
His throat is full – no song upon his tiny tongue,
spinning in circles, adrift in a silent flight.
Night sky, scorched orange, urban light- obscuring the stars.
On winter’s icy winds, a vertical descent – wings split-
eyes blind, voice mute above the city,
a tiny unseen bird, amongst a million seeking refuge.
A tiny bird, without a song.
He longs to sing, to fly on wings as delicate as ancient lace – the strength of an eagle – a fleeting flight of grace.
“I have always plucked at feathers. Picking at them with my fingers, inside a cushion or a pillow, and in childhood, I remember the occasional Eiderdown. I cannot sleep without a feather in a pillow; however small, it must be there. If I find myself without, perhaps sleeping in a hotel or someone else’s home, it is a sleepless night. If I sit anywhere, and there is a feather nearby, I am at it. Pick pluck pick. And I am comforted. Now, I live amongst the Birds in my garden. Maybe back in my long-ago DNA History, I was a bird? A sparrow? A Starling? I don’t feel as if I were anything as magnificent as an Eagle or a Stork. Anyway, I love the little birds.”
cg ©
Winter 2021 February. Home alone… for a long time. Feeling strange today.
