by Grace Patterson
Tiny soiled hands
cradle the fallen;
a pale shade of sovereignty.
She stares,
in hope
that flutter
will return to its wings.
A tragic fate,
she thinks
for a creature denied
a vigour to match its vibrance.
From air to earth,
its reign now ended,
she is left to wonder:
what is this thing we call freedom?
A velveteen jewellery box,
the royalist of blues,
a coffin now
fit for a Monarch.
She stands;
undertaker, overseer –
the girl with the Grim in her eyes.
Grace Patterson is a writer, poet, amateur wildlife photographer and animal enthusiast living on the Gold Coast, Australia. She is currently undertaking a double major in Creative Writing and Literary Studies at Griffith University. She is working on a collection of creative nonfiction and her first collection of poetry.
Photo credit via Firesign on Flickr, all creative commons