A Poem

By Hannah Williams

sometimes,  hands become colonised,
adept in taking things that are        yours.
segregate the seconds quickly
when they ask to purchase time.
maybe borders, maybe water
maybe speech, maybe song.
memories and melodies
that our country is a bird.
minding its business
she rests in her nest,
of scattered  twigs and leaves.
holes poked in her abode
with hands  holding her           morning  melody.
when power is subdued
and the dawn fulfils
its promises,
casting its shadows
on orphaned offspring
remind yourself
that those hands will wilt
and weakening  their grip.