Little Bird Broken

Today, on Sunday 6th July 2014, I found the body of a little bird on the grass in our back garden. It was rotted through to the bone in places, and there was no obvious cause of death. The flies were already at work. Although it wasn't a beloved pet or family relative or even a human body I'd come across, I was shocked still. It was the second time in my life I was confronted with the spectre of death; I was struck by the cold, uncompromising nature of what I found. I found today that life can end, at any point, and that's it. There's no half-and-half, no going back on your word. Death is, no humour intended, a life sentence. 

As I've said here, I put the body in a small bag filled with dirt and a few leaves, to give the body a chance to be buried with the same dignity as any human would be given, even if not in the same manner. it was cruel to place it in the bin, I know; lumped together with all the leftovers of unfinished dinner and unrecyclable wrappers and plastics, it will be classified now as mere rubbish. But to quote Shakespeare, "I that am cruel am yet merciful." I believe I spared it the indignity that would come from burying it in the garden to be reduced to fertiliser by plants or leaving it to the flies to be taken apart bit by bit. 

Anyway, I used a twist on the haiku style 575 syllable rule. I'm pretty sure actual haikus consist of finished statements read in sequence, but you can probably tell I used lines that flow over and into each other. (I'm pretty sure I categorised it right, but I'm not sure. Please tell me if you think it's wrong) This is what art is about though - experimentation! I didn't just write a straight up, traditional poem, I tried something new, tried to give it a fresh spin. 

Well, that's that. My first submission in years is coming in on a downer. Still, I hope it shows how I've grown as a writer (and a person) compared to the rest of the stuff in my gallery, which shows signs of teething and a need for technique-refining. I'll leave it there though - to remind myself, if for no other reason, where I came from; good writers, and great ones, aren't born, but made, through constant and frequent renewal and practice.

Comments are open, so feel free to say what you like. I'll be going now - there's always more to do.