Poem

Fledgling.

I would have held her in my hand.

Tiny thing, not long left the nest.

Wind swept on acrid seas,

Plunged into the concrete.

From the twisted wreck a coiled plume,

Taste of iron and grit.

Unpick feather from bone.

Skin sagged

Cut, torn, stitched, and scarred

Pricked by saline drip.

A second chance on the second month,

Learning to fly again.

Gemma Compton - February 2024.