Birds in his head

Daedalus
by Alastair Reid
My son has birds in his head.
I know them now. I catch
the pitch of their calls, their shrill
cacophonies, their chitterings, their coos.
They hover behind his eyes and come to rest
on a branch, on a book, grow still,
claws curled, wings furled.
His is a bird world.
I learn the flutter of his moods,
his moments of swoop and soar.
From the ground I feel him try
the limits of the air —
sudden lift, sudden terror —
and move in time to cradle
his quivering, feathered fear.
At evening, in the tower,
I see him to sleep and see
the hooding-over of eyes,
the slow folding of wings.
I wake to his morning twitterings,
to the croomb of his becoming.
He chooses his selves — wren, hawk,
swallow or owl — to explore
the trees and rooftops of his heady wishing.
Tomtit, birdwit.
Am I to call him down, to give him
a grounding, teach him gravity?
Gently, gently.
Time tells us what we weigh, and soon enough
his feet will reach the ground.
his feet will reach the ground.
Age, like a cage, will enclose him.
So the wise men said.
My son has birds in his head.
This lovely poem seen on Jora’s blog, Domestic Reflections.









7 comments
I saw this on Jora's blog too. Lovely.
wonderful.
he chooses his selves...
“Am I to call him down, to give him
a grounding, teach him gravity?
Gently, gently.
Time tells us what we weigh, and soon enough
his feet will reach the ground.”
i think this fits with the overall philosophy, don’t you?
you, Lori, are messing with my careful interior design. my walls are filling with poems printed out from your blog. this is another *really* good one. --Nancy in NC
what is a home without poetry on the walls?! ;^)
Thank you for sharing that poem. It moved me (in a good way).
thanks, amy -- i'm glad it was in a good way! ;^)
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