I held a bird in my hands
She was an old mother blackbird
who had become too tame
and flown into our sitting room
and, taking fright, had tried to fly
through the glass of a window

I captured her with gentle hands
and felt her soft quivering body
encased in my hold
not fighting, not struggling
but yearning, yearning to be free

I carried her out into the garden
and looked at the trees and the sky
and thought, ‘here is your freedom,
fly, fly mother bird to your family’

and as I spread my hands wide and let go,
I felt a surge of pure happiness
as unbounded the small brown bird
battered by life but full of hope
flew away and beyond my garden
into a future I would never see