This Bird Has Flown - Bless You, Billy

 

A recent episode of the new All Creatures Great and Small took me back to my childhood. The story included a blue budgerigar, left at the vet’s surgery for minor treatment, to be collected later by the owner, a blind lady. Spoiler alert – skip the rest of this paragraph if you don’t want to know what happens. Sadly, the budgie chooses this excursion to fall off his ornithological perch, expired. Rather than give the lady bad news, the vet decides to replace her pet with another and is sure she won’t know the new budgie is a green one. The small detail of the blue one never singing and the green one being very chirpy was overlooked, otherwise all was well in the end.

One day when I was a young child, I came home from school to find a new addition to the family. In the sitting room, in a cage hooked on to one of those bird-stands, a pretty, pale blue budgerigar was tutting to its reflection in its own vanity mirror, head going side to side. I was in awe, it was so sweet and I loved it straight away. We named him Billy. My dad took charge of his care but showed me how to top up Billy’s seeds, give him fresh water and wedge a piece of cuttlefish shell between the bars of the cage to rub his beak on. I was thrilled to have another pet. We had a dog that liked his own company and a cat that was always pregnant or nursing kittens, so it was better to leave her alone. I could stand and talk to Billy, tell him about school and how I was doing. I was shocked to go to the cage after school one day and find a green budgie. My dad told me Billy had matured. He said all budgies started off blue and turned green into adulthood. Of course, I believed him I had no reason not to. Many years later the truth came out. Bless him for saving my tears. I have read that some types of budgies do change colour as their feathers are replaced, but this tends to be a shade darker, or a mix.

Lovely Billy, blue or green, long gone but remembered with fondness and All Creatures Great and Small gave me a happy memory.

Maya Angelou's Caged Bird

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Candles - Remembrance

Strolling around Dublin’s Temple Bar district with friends, I found myself thinking of my late Uncle Bill, a lovely Irishman and one of the pub landlords in my family. We were buddies for the whole eight years we had each other. He loved to take baby me out in my pram. When I was old enough he took me to the swings and my aunt would come along, too. Most Sunday afternoons our whole family would be together. Pubs closed on Sundays between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days and at that time we still lived fairly close to each other. I was always a Daddy’s girl, but Uncle Bill was another good playmate and had a wealth of stories to tell me. With no children of their own, my uncle and aunt doted on me and we were all thrilled with the arrival of my new baby sister. Uncle Bill died suddenly on 16^th March, 1964. His rich singing voice would not be heard on St Patrick’s Day, or ever again. He is buried in his native Cork.

I was in Dublin, my first visit to Ireland, but it won’t be my last, it’s on my ‘to do’ list to go back and see more, including Cork, but it was too far away on that short break. With my head full of childhood memories of Uncle Bill, I excused myself from my company while I nipped into nearby St Teresa’s Church to light him a candle. Feeling spiritual rather than religious, I watched the flame become established, pointing heavenward, unfaltering in the still air like others around it, a tiny light expressing strength and power, a symbol of remembrance and love. I spent a few moments reflection before returning to my friends.

Sometime in my not-too-distant future I will return to Ireland and visit as much of the Emerald Isle as I can. I hope to visit Uncle Bill’s burial place. I will light a candle for him in Cork.

 

I found this poem,

 

 

Candle in the Window

 

There’s a candle in the window,

Shining with a loving light.

It’s been sitting there for years now,

It really is a lovely sight.

 

A tiny candle in the window

Burning with a light so rare,

Where the cold wind doesn’t blow,

A loving sign that someone cares.

 

A tiny flame that burns inside

The window of that tiny shack,

Like the flame that in the heart resides,

Wishing someone would come back.

 

It will burn ‘til two soul mates

Are reunited once again,

And overcome the cruel hand of fate,

And joy replaces all the pain.

 

Juan Olivarez

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Resilience

I love Spring. Not too hot, not too cold, it brings hope, beauty and the Sun, which in turn gives us some much needed Vitamin D after months of harsh and gloomy weather. The air itself is fresher and it is all I can do sometimes to restrain myself and not make a complete spectacle by standing and enjoying the weather and taking in a big, deep, over dramatic breath.  Although, if there's no-one around, I do that anyway. I feel happier, and my smile is wider for it.

Believe it or not, one of the best places to appreciate Spring is in a Graveyard or Crematorium. On my visits to Carleton Crematorium it is absolutely stunning, so a while ago now I penned a poem about it.  Over time, I have re-visited that same poem and edited and expanded upon it.  It now sounds like this:


My Tranquil Haven
 
A warm embrace from the Sun up above,
Bringing life to nature abound,
Flowers stretching, shaking off Winters Cold,
A rainbow sea all around.
 
Purples and Pinks, Whites and Reds,
Yellows, Oranges and Blues,
Offerings marking affection and respect,
Differing plants in all manner of hues.

Tree's standing sentinel offer a welcome shade,
Diffusing and dappling the Sun,
Cascading catkins veil and bow low,
Cherry Blossom petals dance, not to be outdone. 

The verdant grass and leaves whisper softly,
Caressed by a tender breeze,
Birds aloft sing their sweetest of songs,
The World seemingly at ease.

New life burgeoning above the earth,
Below, our ancestors, in natural shroud, 
In harmony together, just like our love,  
I recall fondly, it was emblazoned so proud. 

So calm and serene, a place to reflect
To remember someone so dear
Tranquillity reigns in the Cemetery
I visit without any fear.



I realise that some may find that a little morbid, but it wasn't intended that way at all. I'm sure it will perhaps change again before I am completely happy with it.

Any-hoo, thanks for reading. x

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Quiet time.

The very first piece of origami I can remember doing was a simple box. It was my old headmaster, a man called Peter Higgins that taught an entire year group how to do it and it is something that I have never ever forgotten since. Simple in its premise, the aim is to turn a single sheet of A4 paper into something useful- and useful it was as I have made one for every girlfriend I have ever had at some point, as well as using them myself for simple desk tidies and trinket holders. 

This week I've been thinking of loss. We had some bad news that a dear friend of the family- one of those faces from every special occasion- had passed away. At the funeral I found myself swept up in the emotion, the turn-out and indeed, the humour of the moment as a brass band began to play outside the crematorium mid-service. I should say, there was an element of doubt as to whether it had been pre-arranged by the man himself- such was his reputation for bringing a smile and a bit of mischief and I'm sure he would have appreciated the sentiment of it in against the saddening backdrop of the military standards. I wasn't alone in my smiling and from what people were saying afterwards, it seems everyone had the same flash-thought as the drums and trombones struck up. 

To me, Wilf will always be remembered. I will remember the way he scored his charm across my sheet of paper and once that mark has been made, it can never be undone- even paper has a memory. So I did what I always do- I made a box and took the quiet time to do a bit of considering the many good moments to be cherished. For Wilf then, and for Peter Higgins my old headmaster, here is my origami poem. 

Thanks for reading, S

Quiet time.

Give me one blank sheet and I’ll make you a picture

Measured out with the precision of a cross legged boy.

It will be a paper box, a collection of memories

All thoughtfully gathered with a hard scored crease.

I was ten, in assembly and the headteacher’s gift

Was to give us a way to collect up our thoughts.

I bring the top corner down to the side, trim the excess

Take my new perfect square and fold it in half,

Bring each half of this to the middle again.

Unfold, turn the paper through ninety degrees

And repeat, you should now have a squared gatefold sleeve.

Bend  the top corners inwards but just to the first crease

Then the middle edge back up to rest over these

Again with the bottom, you’re aiming for symmetry

Pull the middle lips out and you should start to see

The shape of the box I remember from childhood

Taught to me in assembly hall years ago

That man may have passed now but back then he marked me

Took my blank sheet of paper and scored on his line

With a mountain fold, peaking to see a potential

That would help me reflect in the fullness of time. 

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