The Bird gets the Worm

I could be content, if,

I allowed myself to be.

I could not write lists

or set life goals,

if I was happy, just


under a big old oak tree.


I could watch the blackbird,

(or is it a thrush?)

as she


fluffed feathers dripping,


for the worms to hear

that it’s raining,

to be speared

by her beak (clever thing).


I could be happy

if I gave myself time.

And forgot to do stuff, to do things,

and watch


pure and sated, by nature’s


rhythm and rhyme. 

Published by Kirstie Sivapalan

Writer. Poet. Indie Kid. Crystal Lady. Pisces. Enthuser. Cheerleader. Helper. Geordie Londoner. Sharer of stuff I know. Sometimes found working in HR (but not very often) Oh, and #spoonie, living with ME/CFS. That about covers it.

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