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