The room lay still, silent and without light.
Draped night had fallen and was all-enveloping,
and the fearful room cowered from the world.
One dark dawn, a chick of Sunshine edged in
through a chink in the curtains and alighted
bright on a windowsill. It waited patiently
for the room to adjust: to lighten slightly,
to be able to distinguish shapes in the shade.
The room sat and waited and watched, suspicious
of what the chick was. At first, it seemed a light tang:
pale, but fresh as a lemon drop that might land
on a child’s tongue. And slowly it coloured,
from pure primrose to a confection of buttercup,
evermore richer, evermore deeper.
the chick came back and sat in the corner of the room.
And the room watched, as the chick
couldn’t help but radiate out of itself
warmth as wide as wingspan and trill as long as song.
Clusters of small, fragrant white flowers had fallen
from the sky and smoothed onto the chick’s back,
as it had swooped through the morning to return
before the room awoke.
Days turned into weeks
and the room continued to watch and wait,
still unsure of the small shaft of light that had entered
the still of the room.
Then, gently, timidly,
out of the stirrings of a special dawning day,
a quivering hand seemed to reach out of a corner,
connect and hold the chick of Sunshine gingerly,
with great care and hesitant hope.
The room lightened a shade, pallid fingers
hovering across the faded wallpaper.
Reticence had started to melt and the glow
of a new-found liaison touched softness,
making the feathers slip like sliding butter
and releasing the chick of Sunshine
to the joy of the room’s first flight of fancy.
A flight that soared and heightened
and went beyond and above the ceiling
that had previously trapped the room’s fears.
In the rush of released exuberance,
like a child’s spirit afloat a bubble,
the chick of Sunshine was unable to stop
and fluttered evermore upwards.
Forever and beyond the sun and sky
to the winking of stars, the chick disappeared
from view to a garden of released sunflowers,
waving in the warmth of timeless summer.
A chronic loneliness had been lifted,
for in the dimmed room glimmers surfaced,
gently slanting, gently pulsing their balm.
The room was no longer dark,
for the chick of Sunshine had left behind rays of light:
feathers, so airy that they danced and drifted,
wafting into the blackest recesses,
floating through locked doors and shuttered windows.
The room was now suddenly showered with white flowers,
adorned and displayed and delightful.
It had been luminously transformed
and wondered at the gift of a special presence.
And caught in a new light, the room smiled out
of its clear-viewed windows and now realized:
saw the chick of Sunshine would forever return
each day in a new way and peer through the windows,
shining its presence and pleasure.
The room remembered how, for the first time,
the chick of Sunshine had perched and preened
and brought light to a world once silent and still.
Now, with spark and thrill, the room grasped
that behind the closed blinds of long day’s end,
the light of the world can be carried
in such small packages that they’re sometimes missed.
And that the next day brings fresh presents.
And how, at first, their delivery may seem
- imperceptible, elemental.
But once awoken, they can fill a room
with the penetration of a sunbeam.