Dangling (Poetry)

She left it there —
abandoned on a twig
a feather mask she’d worn for fancy dress
and there it hung —
the face that warmed it gone —
dangling its kingfisher-blue
whimsiness.

Incongruous —
yet not entirely so —
feathers can be found in any wood
but scattered on the ground
or hooked upon a thorn —
not dyed and fashioned for
some passing party mood.

Might she not come back for it? —
Retrieve it for a fading souvenir?
The feathers ruffle their false colour in the breeze
afraid the local birds won’t recognise
their own kind.