May contain Rants

Across the open skies…

There’s an old black bag
That looks like a bird with torn wings of ragged plastic
It’s become entangled in the winter branches of the tree at the bottom of the garden
Every morning I open the curtains
Look up to see it still sitting there
I watch whilst opportunistic magpies gang up and try and torment it
I can tell it wants to free itself from its prison
But bedraggled all it can do is wait
For the weather to change
For winds to pick up
So it reserves its energy
Then the day arrives the branches of the sycamore begin to sway
This is its only chance to be free
Furiously flapping its tired wings
Finally it breaks free
And once more it soars across the open skies

I smile

© June Bolland 2016

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