The mould

Your feathers bear the weight of days

Absorbing the shift and the shuffle

Of the dreams and malaise.

A third of a life captured

In the nest of a mould,

You are plumped and cried into

Cradles for the cold.

Inside your fabric are stories once uttered,

Are scents of the sacred that have all but since fluttered.
Bedtime journeys make up your domain
You steady the course as the mind takes its train.