A BIRD IN THE HAND

On a May morning we, Alice and I, sat in my sunny parlour, she by the window and me opposite, gazing out at the fine display of white roses.

“What a lovely day!”, said she.

“It's good to be alive” I replied.

The window could not be opened except for a narrow flap at the top to let in fresh air.

“Here we are and no War!”

“War! What War?” she asked

“This is the 60th anniversary of World War Two. We never knew when we would be bombed, night or day could be our last. Portsmouth is a city for War. Add to that the sinking of war ships, and in nearby Tangmere aerodrome the heavy loss of Air Force Pilots, and machines”. As we spoke the images of Adolf Hitler (1885-1945), Benito Mussolini (1883-1945) and the odious Joseph Stalin (1879-1953), came to mind.

“They all had violent deaths” said Alice, as thus we chatted.

Suddenly our peace was shattered, for, out of the blue a bird flew in through the open window. In panic, it tried to fly out again, but kept banging itself against the glass pane.

“It will kill itself”, said I, and, quickly reaching for the telephone, rang Keith my next-door neighbour.

“It's an owl”, said Alice. I had thrown a green lacy cardigan on the armchair. Now the exhausted bird had alighted on the garment where its claws were entangled. At this moment, in came Keith.

Gently he caught the bird. “This is no owl! It is a parakeet. Look at the long slender tail. It is a beautiful bird. We must put an advertisement in the Portsmouth Journal”

“And The News”, said I.

“ Do you know much about birds?”

Quick as a flash Alice said, “Knowing Keith of old, he was a great one for the birds”.

He only laughed, as he soothed the poor bird.

Rose lynch. 10-May-2005

To include:- an owl, a white rose, and armchair.