There was no lush, green grass
in that foreign land,
no blackbird trilling,
just scorched earth
and the shrill of a canary
trapped in a wicker cage
that hung outside
a neighbouring finca.
I was luckier than him
when one April morning
I found the courage
to fly away,
leaving behind an island
of shattered dreams.
I fled to a country
of verdant wealth, ice blue fjords
and crisp, clean air,
where magpies strutted
and squabbled beneath
abundant, wavering Silver Birch,
that overlooked a shimmering lake
carrying the mountains whispers.
And in the blink of spring time,
amidst the chatter of tiny people
I rediscovered peace and happiness
and thought of that little yellow bird,
still trapped in his cage.