Clay Bird

Can bird take flight though concocted of clay?
If gravity's calloused palm must condem?
Can bird's stillness manifest to convey,
A vivid glimpse where life's blossom may stem?

Wings homage of stone mould to his coarse sides,
But extend to sodden my anguished tears.
He lacks veins to pump haemoglobin tides,
Yet percussive quavers pulsate my ears.

His pupils - opaque - deny nature's colours,
Though iridescent haven's seen beyond.
While crude scent confronts my nostrils' parlours.
His aromatic bloom musn't be wronged.

One might brand him an object - pruned of flight
Yet his soul enriches my prolonged light.