Little Bird

Botanic Gardens

On the cusp of the city circle, an old shimmering structure stands. The cream coloured paint, dirtied and faded, masks the embodied swirling metal detail. To a child’s eyes, the translucent glass walls create an allusion, the structure is a fairy tale castle with strange green dancer-like creatures inside. The castle doors are wide open for curious eyes, that strive to discover the strange angelic green dancers. Laughing like bubbles the dancers play under the castle's protection even on a cold damp day. Warm and safe the angelic, dancers quietly whisper with voices like a mother hushing her babe to her chest. The angelic green dancers smell like the fresh earth making even the most curious of noses sing. The rain tapping on the crystal-like windows produces an unstoppable rhythm, that the strange angelic green dancers honourably bow down too. The humidity rises from their sweaty fragile leather skin as they move gracefully in through the corridors. So far away the loud city creaks as they lose themselves in the enchantment of the sound of the harmonious rain. A small sparrow swoops inside the castle to protect himself from the droplets of rain that threaten to send his tiny body to the earth. There safe and warm in the company of the green dancers he sat in their mother like embrace and listened like a sailor drawn to the sweet tune of sirens. The last light begins to fall over the city, it is time for the little sparrow to leave. The doors to the castle close behind him and all the angelic green dancers lay to rest.

Train Station

On a ledge he rests, the small sparrow whose little chirp echoes across the brown oak beams. His little black eyes overlook the platform as trains come and go. Cargo rushed minds consumed in their priorities, each set on their individual path to their destination barely registering the existence of other beings. The minds don’t hear his soft small chirp, so busy, so focused they forget to stop, forget to breathe. The small sparrow sighs, his eyes resting on the reuniting of two peculiar individuals. A woman in her glorious youth with sheer black tights that cling to her pale white calves under a thick denim black skirt. She approaches a young gentleman in slim cut jeans with a golden crowned head. She reaches out, lightly running her thin pale fingers through the strands of gold admiring him as though he was a childhood memory she had forgotten. His arms reach around her like the strong black metallic wings of a raven. The warm heat from their skin radiates, creating a barrier from the cold rushed minds. The little sparrow’s eyes smile, feeling their warm embrace drift to him through the air. Like honey, the feeling oozes through his feathers, through each of the little sparrow’s bones warming his little heart within his big soul.

Art Gallery

Faces. Many faces, young, old, rich, and poor, look out from their confined dusty frames observing the untouchable world. Each face has its own eyes longing to vocalise their story. But the acrylic strokes stick the small mouths in place allowing only the viewer to decide the voice within the frame. Walls and walls of these faces splattered across the room like fresh paint on canvas. Each face has been carved from moments of the fast moving pace of life. Some are of sorrow some. of love, each one different from the one underneath and above. The faces listen to the low thump of shoe heels upon the dark oak floors, that glisten with their reflections. The faces hear the soft mummers of the strange fleshy moveable creatures who stare and whisper judgemental comments in front of their frames. Apart from one little creature with small dark eyes and a tiny pointed beak who scampers across the brown polished floors. The creature stops to rest, perching on the plush leather cushion in the hidden corner of the room. The creature is simply thinking. It sits. It thinks. The faces observe it and notice it’s small unusual body with brown angel wings, and they see the lonely creature’s sorrowful expression, the creature is truly lonely with too many thoughts irrelevant to the moment. The faces for the first time feel pity for the creature and yearn to reach out to him. But the acrylic still sticks to their bodies: helpless, unable to move, bounded to their everlasting moment.

Public Library

Off the side of a busy street, down the alleyway of Francis, in a sky high building on level three, there is a conversation taking place. The soft hum of the releasing inked pages, murmurs to the low hum of bright intelligent voices. Whilst the roar of the tippity-tap echoes across the stacks. The pages standing strong in their binding garments listen, as each one is waiting to have a master’s warm breath puff the layer of dust from their thick starched robes. They wait for their moment to impress a Master’s searching eyes. Their musky perfume allures them to their inked knowledge. Unfortunately, not all knowledge is understood - some are still standing, neglected fallen to the bottom of the hierarchy, old and forgotten. A new master with hands not quite bigger than a pink lady apple reaches for him, the oldest of the old servants on the lowest shelf. Running her fingers along his old frail leather spine. Tracing his edges with her soft innocent touch. With her tiny cheeks, she lets out a puff. In a small peaceful corner under the painted sparrow’s watchful eyes, she and the old wise servant sit. Glued to his gruff grey words that drift through the air, she clings to each word. Slowly her small quiet breath becomes deep, her eyes become heavy. The wise old servant loyal stays in her arms watching his little master rest peacefully. Together they stay in that little corner with the little sparrow’s eyes watching over.