I dream of mountains and fjords, of pine woods far away over the sea.

How many minutes and hours, days and years have I been imprisoned here? What crime condemned me, to be trapped inside this instrument of torture?

The floor beneath me shakes with the aweful thuds that measure out my days. Dust from above trickles down covering my back and head. There is no room to turn or preen.

No hour passes without an attempt to escape but always I am dragged back. But today, at my last attempt, something broke loose. Maybe next time I can flee.

The dreadful stirrings beneath me begin again, chains clank, levers groan, gears and cogs grind as the hatch before me trembles on its hinges.

Blinding light pours in as the hatch springs wide. I shoot out into the void. When the tongue of wood beneath me stops I soar onwards, my call of servitude now a cry for freedom; "Cuckoo!"

Rigid at my sides, my untried wings fail me. Instead of gliding I plunge down to bounce on the floor, my lower beak torn away in splinters. Another bounce and I land with my kin in the fireplace.

I writhe pheonix-like amongst blazing spitting logs, paint blistering, wings sprouting blue flames.

Will they ever notice that the cuckoo has flown the nest?



(c) Bill West 2004