There is an asylum in the sky where free birds horde.
Days test the strength of their bones and wind the stretch of wings.
Beyond the rising sun and descending rain, birds swam.
They tussle for light, and here under the canopies of their mighty squibs,
Crawls a broken dove.
Scavenging through the leftovers of their slipping shadows.
Its spirit has torpor and stalled:
Here where the grass is dry and worms at bay.
Sometimes it snivels and hides under its own haunted mystery,
A times it venture into the sullen moors
Just below the mighty asylum of free birds.
And collect scrap feathers.
But noises from above are so loud that it can’t even hear its own thoughts.
But today, once it has sewed back its wings,
Let will take it to a cliff and let it flap past the asylum to the sunny well.