Dismal Burren


the bluebird’s wings are broken

 

it lies helpless on the plains

no shelter against the raging storm

no brushwood there to keep it warm

in what little time remains

 

death creeps upon her with a chill

her breath grows weaker and fades away

this tiny soul taken, body starts to decay

after some weeks only shiny feathers will

 

be scattered through the sand as a token

 

 

… will the phoenix rise again …