Lynley Edmeades

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Contained

Winter has grown on us — the cool breeze
no longer shocks and the birds carry on
with their sunshine-fed song. Around
their eyes are thin yellow orbs that seem there
to contain, hold that avian pupil in place.
It’s all a question of relativity, you say —
the years felt so long as a child.
But back then, a year was a quarter
of your entire life. Now it’s a mere tilt
of the head — something that’s a little bit more
than nothing, a frame growing smaller
as the days pull at the skin around your eyes.
And yet the point remains the same —
what will be will never be contained.

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