14 December – The Christmas bird

There is a little Jenny Wren who bravely leaves her huddle,
and all the warmth that is her own whenever her chime cuddles,
to perch on top of the terrace conifer and directly stare
at the angel on our Christmas tree as if wishing she was there,
trimmed in golden plumage with fallen stars at her feet,
glittering in the twinkling and basking in the heat
of seeming sunshine feathers ruffling in the grate,
dancing on and on to conquer the dark and late.
I call her the Christmas bird and imagine a full backstory
where she longs to come inside and claim the angel’s glory,
but learns in time it’s only fabric and can neither sing nor fly,
and for all its glorious glamour will soon have to say goodbye,
when Twelfth Night passes and it’s boxed up and put away,
never to feel the air in it’s wings or the real sun’s stroking rays.
Then I watch my Jenny Wren take off with a new sense of vision,
as if reconciled to her one wild life and at peace with her decision.

14 December - The Christmas bird