The Miracle (Poetry)

She found a dead bird on the lawn
its feathers sleek, one open eye
gone blind to bloody hints of dawn
streaked raw across a winter sky.

No mark upon its speckled breast
wings folded perfect — no sign that
its final moments were distressed
as though the victim of some cat.

It lay there peaceful — quite serene
life stopped — its partly gaping bill
suggesting it might just have been
about to protest — then grew still...

She nudged it gently with her foot
and wished for power to restore
its heart beat — out of pity put
one finger to a tight-clenched claw

and at that moment through the cloud
a narrow beam of sunlight broke
unwound the garden’s threadbare shroud
and with a twitch the bird awoke.

Up up it flew and sang and soared
joy bubbling from its tiny throat
for freedom’s simple gladness poured
the air turned liquid note by note.

She drank the sound as though in thrall
a figure in some waking dream
so vivid her intense recall
of all her wondering eyes had seen.

Old sorrows lost their leaden weight
as singing soothed and peeled away
dull layered grief to liberate
her spirit from its prison grey.

It lifted her on music’s wings
the land below stretched far and wide
in visions — pure imaginings
as hurt long-hidden healed inside.

She felt her whole perspective shift
this miracle of higher art
one small brown bird’s transcendant gift
its love for life and grateful heart

inspired her — saw the winter though
’til spring revived to take its place
and birds-eye speedwell’s brilliant blue
flowered there with modest grace

upon the spot her fallen lark
had risen — taken to the skies
escaped the cold unfeeling dark
to show hope lives and never dies.