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Every day I go to build my nest.

I pick up fluff and twigs and scraps of magic…sometimes,

But mainly bits of rubbish.

I go, I fly, I come back. 

Going and flying and coming back.

Beating a well worn path into heavy air -

Pregnant with potential.




It is not of my own volition (I assure you)

But nature demands it of me.

And in evenings where, 

All I want to do is sit and rest in my demented creation,

Nature finds a way of goading me.


That glint over there…

Is that rubbish or is it something else?

And so I go -

I fly -

I come back.

Going and flying and coming back.


Beat against beat while tangled twigs grow.

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