a short story, a description, a character

The Birds

Happy chirps and sweet birdsong,

Fill the air above the throng

The people crowd the wooden walkways,

Pointing and calling at the Birds

Brightly coloured in the gloom

The Birds fly round and round a cage of doom


Long legged, graceful, stepping forth

Huddling together for the warmth.

Some ducks swim by,

A ripple of water in their wake,

Splash Splash

The sound a red-headed herons feet make


Pecking at the walls of their wire cage,

staring at the sun through strips of grey

Born in captivity, never to be free,

Bars and wire, are all these birds will ever see.

Red and yellow, blue and grey, black with green stripes,

Yet they are all dull in a way.

Freedom evades them,

Like the blue sky overhead

It shimmers in the distance,

Like the bright sun in the sky.


Waddling quietly along the ground

Soaring gracefully through the air,

Inside the confines of their prison.


A powerful cassowary struts beneath,

The wooden walkway where a boy shrieks

“Look, mummy, look at that bird!”

“Hush, dear.” She says, with a fear of being overheard.

The Birds, they fly.

The Birds, they swim.

The Birds, they walk.

The Birds, in their prison.


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