My Son has Birds in his head...

Daedalus


My son has birds in his head.


I know them now. I catch
the pitch of their calls, their shrill
cacophonies, their chitterings, their coos.
They hover behind his eyes and come to rest
on a branch, on a book, grow still,
claws curled, wings furled.
His is a bird world.


I learn the flutter of his moods, 
his moments of swoop and soar.
From the ground I feel him try
the limits of the air - 
sudden lift, sudden terror - 
and move in time to cradle
his quivering, feathered fear.


At evening, in the tower,
I see him to sleep and see
the hooding-over of eyes, 
the slow folding of wings.
I wake to his morning twitterings,
to the croomb of his becoming.


He chooses his selves - wren, hawk,
swallow or owl - to explore
the trees and rooftops of his heady wishing.
Tomtit, birdwit.
Am I to call him down, to give him
a grounding, teach him gravity?
Gently, gently.
Time tells us what we weigh, and soon enough
his feet will reach the ground.
Age, like a cage, will enclose him.
So the wise men said.


My son has birds in his head.


ALASTAIR REID (b. 1926)

Big C found this poem.  It sums up Little C perfectly.  We love it.