• Marian Glaser


By Marian Glaser © June, 1995

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I entered the garden of

“The Golden Bird” and sat on grass beneath

a tree, feeling its softness and

looking at the birds that sat on branches

crowding round my head. They were

quiet, neither singing nor preening their feathers,

their bright colours making this spot

more beautiful than a Rembrandt painting or

the Bayou tapestry. They sat

on every branch around me, gazing

at this strange new presence. Parrots

jostled bluebirds. Goldfinches beside

hummingbirds and swallows now were

silent, not darting about. A horned owl

sat staring in spite of the light

falling in shafts through the branches. A stream

flowed nearby, watering the wild flowers on

its banks as well as the green grass

where I was lying, flowers around me.

Blue, red, yellow, orange, lavender,

broke the green. The shadow of

the lacy gate I entered etched its

black shape on the grass, bird picture,

letters, wrought iron curves, posts and all. A

tiger nuzzled me, and I felt

its soft fur, without fear of claws or teeth.

I had lost blood, fallen asleep,

not expecting to wake, clutching the hands

of the two dead men I had loved.

I slept, saw this, woke ready to go on.

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