TINKERING WITH NATURE

BUILDING A BIRD

By Frances Harris



Yesterday I went outside and didn’t see a bird,

I took my little whistle out and called but wasn’t heard,

Lately I’ve not seen a lot, and sometimes none at all,

I fear my little feathered friends are very rare indeed,

The day before I saw a flash of what I thought was blue,

I crept up on it silently, to find a plastic bag,

Could it be that climate stuff for years I’ve liked to read,

Is messing up my own back yard, and holding back the birds,

I sat a while to contemplate, seeking a solution,

I looked up ‘bird,’ on Facebook, but couldn’t find the meaning,

I found one in my dictionary, it really was specific,

It said a feathered animal that sparked imagination,

I searched for many days and months, my search was largely fruitless,

I found a bunch of dragon flies and something that was buzzing,

I realised that my world has changed; I need to take some action,

I found a little blueprint in a place I had forgotten,

How am I to build one? I’ve never tried before,

And how am I to make it walk? A mighty job for sure,

I can’t find colours to compare; a bird is something else,

A perfect job already done, should I try to match it?

When I lay out all the details, drawings and the lot,

They’re not designed to balance and I don’t know how they fly,

I’ll have to look at how they work to make a better style,

I gathered up some cotton reels, paper, screws and wire,

I had to make another beak; the old one wasn’t fitting,

My model doesn’t look the same: I think there’s something missing,

It’s nothing like an eagle and it’s not much like a dove,

I can’t see what it needs to work; it’s not what I’d imagined,

I’ve finished all my tinkering, and proud of what I made,

The problem is it won’t stand up; it lies down on its side,

Then I had a flash of thought, the answer is quite simple,

It only needs a pair of wheels, a runway and a hanger,

I launched my bird high in the air; it came down with a thud,

My ego came down with it and landed in the mud,

Perhaps I shouldn’t tinker, with something nearly perfect,

I’ll mount my bird in pride of place, to languish on the mantle.