I Dreamt of a Broken Bird
I dreamt of a broken bird that couldn’t fly
left by a child in a box of grass and found
years later making the same lost sound
so it seemed a miracle that it didn’t die.
I dreamt of someone clutched around a pain
that wouldn’t go away, a wound, an injury
that put on layers, grew outwards like a tree
until it seemed impossible to contain
within a body’s span. I saw the bird
still try to move, still pulsing desperately
in the sheltering place constructed for its safety
by that well meaning child. I saw the hard
growth round the tender wound. It took no art
to see my dream was all about the heart.
by Ciaran Parkes
Editor’s Note: This sonnet is built for the volta where the dream is uncovered, much like pushing a shroud aside to see what’s beneath it.