Together With The Hummingbirds - A prose poem
by Kathleen King Age 11
(Christchurch, New Zealand)
So there I was. Time ticking by, and I was hanging by my legs from the swing in our backyard. At least, I think I was. The sun beat down on my back, a non-stop rhythm. A rhythm of happiness, sunshine, life. Swinging slowly through the trees, wind whipping through my hair. I am not happy. I am not content. Somehow, I am not me. Hummingbirds are chatting softly throughout the trees, helping me to remember that I am here. I am not gone. Not yet.
So here I am. Locked in a dark, dusty room, with pear juice dribbling down my chin. Hiding. My life depends on it. Hidden away under a bed, my entire family tucked in. We are like dolls in a dollhouse, all 25 of us crammed in. Aunties, uncles, cousins, grandparents. We are hiding, hungry, dirty and cold. I cannot remember what happiness feels like. Somewhere, I hear a hummingbird calling.
So here we are. Swinging in the backyard, hiding from the clutches of no more. The clutches that have tried so many times to collect us. We are together. Not safe, but not in danger. We are together. Hummingbirds are calling, joining us together. Here we are.
By Kathleen King