Matter Of Heritage

Little bird, Fly free


Maybe one day you will sit behind a desk
And spend your days a caged bird
On someone else’s time.
Maybe you will wear a suit and
Tie yourself to the ticking hands of
The rich man’s clock.
Maybe you will.
Plutus is a beguiling god.

But at least, in the small hours,
The ones just before dawn, when grown
Men forget themselves in sleep,
You may remember these days.
These days, when you ran free as a bird,
That jumps and hops and soars from
Perch to perch, all the time singing,
With no one calling it to account.

These days when time was simply
The turning of a globe around its star,
The coming and going of the light,
The beating of a heart rushing on
Towards life. Sweet halcyon days.
When twirling in the sun
Like dandelion clocks, we danced
Barefoot in the dew dipped grass.

Like this I build your inheritance
A castle full of dreams and a
Half glimpsed memory of freedom.
The kind of dream that wakes you
Sweating and breathless and longing
For more. It may not be enough
But it is all I have to offer.
May it serve you well, little bird.