Lying silently on the bank of that tender green, where the snail hangs secretly underneath a moist blade of grass, where the wildfowls perch beneath the morning sun, an injured pigeon tucked away quietly awaits her end. As her forgotten memories bloom like mushrooms - the autumn days in play and flight and the cold nights jesting with her young’uns curled in love – are now nothing but a faint dream. Her last day now rested upon that inevitable dry hand, the last smell of wild flower descend, as she prepares her final flight beyond the stars above.
And as I point and hold back my crystal tear, screaming to the spider who wraps his fear, peeling off the slug that feeds on the shrub and plant; that old maple tree beside where I sit looks down at me in smile. “For nine and ninety years” he tells me “they come and go like the morning dew. Let the spider and slug be free to feast, for the world is but a mere painting in disguise, nothing to shudder an eyelid to, and nowhere to hide. Leave its splash of colour, do not interfere, for it plays no moral game for us to jeer. Rejoice and be still as the mallard sings, smile back to the woodlice that grin, let your heart see for when I release my last golden leaf, a small hyacinth makes it way back into the world in relieve”.