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Sunday Morning, 7 Weeks Ago
It has been many weeks now
since we found the bird dead
and floating
on our newly-dug pond.
It was a Sunday.
I could smell bread burning
in the yellow light of our room
and a radio, on.
We sipped tea in our little garden,
grass clung to my socks.
And then the tiny flash of green -
chaffinch, goldfinch - we never decided.
How small in your hands!
Sodden, skewed, wings divided.
(You used to divide me)
That afternoon, the burial.
We let it dry in the sun,
although the feathers lost their shine,
like a wedding ring worn dull.
Whilst your fingers were still dirty
I made you net the water.
The net is still there -
I find frogs trapped beneath -
but I don\'t hear the radio now.
You took it with you.
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