Tiny Nest

I wrote this in Room 13 last week amid the chaos of children making things.  Someone left this nest for us as inspiration. A group of four children spent ages  looking and picking up the eggs and considering the nest, not saying much. This short poem is me bringing together things from their comments, written from the perspective of one of the children. When I read it to them today they liked it a lot, which made me think I should share it!

Tiny Nest

My teacher bought

A dead old nest into school for us to see.

It was made of the old sheep’s wool,

you find on barbed wire fences,

bits of grass, and some kind of stuffing from an old toy,

the bird must have got from a bin.

It looked like

A dirty cloud of nothing.

But in the middle,

There were three tiny speckled eggs.

They looked…

Impossible.

How could something so delicate and perfect

come out of a bird’s bottom?

They looked more like something

an old fairy craftsman with moths in his beard,

made with tiny tools,

in the moonlight.

Harley said

“Is that an actual nest?

Are they eggs?”

And carefully picked one up between his finger and thumb,

and placed it on his palm.

No one said anything.

We stared.

Until,

He said

“Ah”

And put it back.

© Ed Boxall 2015

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