Birdy

by Sharon Ashton



Her children are not sure how or when it began,
but solid for so long she is dwindling now;
fluttering, air-light, easily crushed.
Her heart beats in its aching cage,  
but it is beating the wrong rhythm;
and yes, she is eating, but only titbits
and crumbs, as her clubbed fingers and thumbs
clutch at the pink china cup with a gold rim;
the one that her own mother left to her