The Hummingbird

A hummingbird, with a body so frail, With electric blues, darting from its tail. An emerald green head, and majestic small wings, A bold punch of colour, and happiness it brings. She hovers through wind, A flower she’s found, A long slender beak, in the petals it’s bound. A cautious move forward, before darting to the side, As she calculates precisely, her beak she will guide. The flower runs dry, for atleast another day, But thousands are near, in meadows they lay. The bird carries on, darting through the breeze, Past dark green bushes, and branches from trees. A town is nearby, with a small dainty shop, Selling coffees and cakes, with icing on top. Outside the shop, are baskets of colour, Flowers of all kinds, from bright ones to duller. The hummingbird stops, and takes a break, Sees a crumb on the floor, from a piece of cake. Then cautiously flies, to the baskets above, And flies upon heaven, with the flowers she loves. Dedicated to George