On Day 659 of the daily poems, our poet Anthony Watts buries a true treasure …
Greenfinch
The dead bird at your feet –
there is nothing
more silent, more still.
The sunlit meadow of its breast
unfaded, yellow tail-lights blazing,
it lay on the concrete path below the window
that stopped it dead
in its flightpath through the conservatory:
discarded shuttlecock, appliquéd purse
containing the smashed contraption that an hour ago
had sped it round the garden on hidden wires.
I consign it to the compost heap
like burying treasure.
Anthony Watts