Bird: She was a bird more beautiful than any fowl Pure as a white cloud resting on a cherry bough Her flight always seen by the master’s brow But a dart found her heart. The three sisters were there but took no part For innocence has no avenger to sing in the spring. A little boy so full of joy from his father his first bow, One like Zeus gave to Apollo and Cupid before the fall. Made of magic cherry wood as I recall Stout the bow but easily drawn was the string With innocents an arrow in the sky he let fling No vengeance or deceit hidden any where made a sound Nor accuracy was intended upon the happy lad’s part Even Poena would have agreed as she fell to the ground And the feathers from the arrow pierced her heart the voice: Poetry on the Move: 4