By Marian Glaser © June, 1995
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.