Frost. Quiver. Echo. Long. Forsake

This post is again courtesy the prompt words given by the very kind S.T.J on Twitter. I owe whatever I write these days to the kindness of her being. In an ideal world I should have written a book having all this encouragement but the blocks in my mind always get the better of me.


The frost-bitten birds

flock eastwards,

flapping their feeble wings

holding maps in their eyes

of the warmth of loving waters.

They dip and dance,

nest and mate,

before seeing their love life curtailed.

Their tiny hearts quiver and quail

with every echo of a gunshot.

They cannot do life nor love

and are left longing for a place

they will never forsake.