~ First-Storey ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
One small feather flew yesterday,
Blew to my hand whilst on my way,
Walking that day to work.
A fervent morn with fierce sun,
O how pathways of gold did run:
Dazzling like diamond aisles.
I walked downhill through shadow’s haunt
Taunted by terrace housing,
Crowding my daunting descent.
Turning right blinding light,
Eyesight stunned shocked stuttered:
Heart fluttered beating fast.
Paths ahead auriferous threads,
Ribbons meandering pyres:
Rivers of rushing fire.
Sunshine fed pavements bled
Led to a crossing beneath morn’s sun,
Where without stopping crossing a road.
I pass a point where seagulls feed,
Where need rips open bin-liners,
Food left-over diners.
A sudden wind harried morn’s air,
A feather blew with spirited flare,
Flew into my open hand.
So small so delicate I couldn’t clutch,
In as much I might have crushed its spirit.
Closing my hand with it held in it.
Fleeting touch on fingertips,
Then airborne fleeing once more,
Hovering above the floor.
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