The wind ruffles my feathers
Which float in disparate fashion
Their fronds reflecting an uncertain and eerie light;
The deep swathe of the black plume
Reminds me what I have lost;
And yet not all are tipped in Indian ink.
Pink is not my colour but the reddish glow
Highlights the blood that still flows
Through my gentle veins;
The movements are swift and leisurely
By turns, and the wind, though invisible,
Keeps me afloat.
(c) Poet in the woods 2014