Saturday, 12 May 2012

Life of a feather

Pictured: A feather
If we could live our lives as feathers
Go with the flow and let those around us grow
We could get through most of the bad weather
If we touched the world, as light as a feather


As day follows night, a white dove takes flight.
Given a fright by the sight of a puppy who in youthful delight
will playfully bite all it sees in the bright morning light.
The dove, symbol of peace, symbol of love,
Caring naught for the weather,
Defying gravity’s tether flies up toward the ether leaving behind a solitary feather.

Completely at ease, caught on a breeze the feather floats from the trees.
Delicate, fragile, flexible, agile the feather of fluff coasts on the wind’s puffs
Toward a new world: tough, rough.
In the sun’s morning rays the feather plays in the drafts,
Forrays and graphs a line through a world knowing not of its craft.

In a natural arc it floats from the park over a world of man locked in habits so stark.
The busy street, people stamping their feet;
Horns sounding, frustration resounding from those astute, locked in their commute.
Man’s lives full of ravel, built up from the gravel —
Far below as the feather it travels.

Gracefully unsteady but inherently ready the feather swirls toward the ground
Caught in passing car’s eddy.
Through the big and the small talk it coasts up the sidewalk below it the world stalks on.
It’s pushed on by gusts,
Thrust with the dust neither calm nor nonplussed
Not happy or fussed go with the flow it must.


Round a bend it descends down near heads of men on chance it depends,
With no foe to offend,
No friend to commend,
No course to amend,
No will to extend, no need to pretend.
Passing by a disheleved buck, clothes torn,
Face covered in muck,
Down on his luck asking strangers he sees to spare him a buck.
Most will ignore him like many before him,
Some will abhore him yet the feather moves on before any assure or restore him.

Closing in on the ground, amongst all the sound yet still unbound,
It’s journey nearly unwound.
Nearing a pavement so tiled, an innocent child spots the feather as its movements get wild.
With a hand needing a good wipe the child caught in the hype,
Lunges and swipes, plunges and snipes.
The young hand barely missing brings with it air that comes hissing
The feather rises again its descent now dismissing.

On with the wind still with no care heading to and from nowhere
For that below no thoughts it can spare.
For lives wrapped in gold,
For young or for old, for those warm or those cold,
For secrets kept or those told the feather knows not,
Fears not, can not be bought can not be sold.

Up into a window it rises past a cat it surprises
To a room where one soul has just removed his disguises.
The soul flops on the bed of which the room comprises,
Teary eyed and forlorn now out of the world he despises.
The feather swirls and rises above as the soul below sets about revising his love,
The feather waits for one more celestial shove.

Sheletered now in this room
The feather can no longer loom in the air it once zoomed in
But it fears not of doom it cannot assume its end was not meant for this room.
With a proud journey travelled,
Its pathway unravelled it floats with no fight toward the floor of its plight.
On the cold wooden floor too far from the door to catch drafts anymore
It gracefully settles like many feathers before.
No judgements were made of the world that it played through,
The pathway it swayed through
All around it life was beauty to wade through.
Its path has always been its path.

It knows it came from a dove,
Symbol of love and one perhaps one day,
It will return to above.