I have a friend not quite indivisible,
Not a clown or a cloud
Or a friend that is invisible.
More a chirpy chappy,
Who acts like a sentinel,
As though he is some keeper of at a gate.
Although the friend is snow blind,
He keeps a curl of whisker
In his bendy beak,
Which he hopes
Will ward off frost bite.
His countenance is fine,
His chirp is chipper too.
And he is watching
From his perch on high.
The good folks never hear him.
The good folks continue to bake blind.
But his eyes are blowing
In every direction like the breath of spring.
His stare is like your Shadow.
Like a hand upon the collar.
The friends song is catchy,
It catches everyone unawares.
It is sung as a melody of the mind.
Once lodged, there is no escape.
It has no foot tapping beat,
It is just the singing notes
A tune of sublime witness.
It is not available to everyone.
It exists as if it is unreal.
It is like a flag of memory
Or the flashed across sense of someone from the past.
The friend who is no longer a companion.
These days my friend is a little bird.
He chirps continuously
From a neighbour's guttering.

©2019 Christopher Thompson

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