The Bullfinch (I.P)

She knew nothing of freedom
or of imprisonment,
but with every frenzied beat
of the Bullfinches wing,
with every glimpse
into his panic stricken eyes;
desperate for a chink, a glimmer of escape,
A part of her too tender
to endure it, died.
Later, with his wings outstretched, as if in supplication
or flying, she buried him.
She did not have the words
at six years old
to say;
that they should have released him,
to explain;
that she did not want another bird.
She knew nothing of the ignorance of adults
or the innocence of children,
She did not have the words.