Soul Bird Incarnate has been remade from an older piece from 2024. Her transformation followed a moth attack which required a complete cleansing! She is reborn, stronger and now sits as if ready to fly yet unwilling to leave her post of sheltering birds.
The following poem is an extract from a friend, Richy.
A pulse not of panic,
but of remembrance.
In the hollow of her chest
there’s a nest of firebirds,
their eyes closed
but dreaming wide.
Each chirp — a memory.
Each flutter — a truth once buried.
She carries them gently,
inside ribs once cracked by silence.
Her bones, now branches.
Her sorrow, now soil.
They sing into her spine,
harmonies of lifetimes
where she burned but didn’t break.
Where she held the light
and passed it on
without being seen.
One bird speaks your name,
another sings your father’s pain,
a third holds the prayer
your mother never said aloud.
Around and around she goes —
not lost,
but calling all pieces home.
Not mad.
Not broken.
A living myth with feathers.
Her skirt is stitched
from timelines you almost forgot.
Her spin, a spiral
leading straight into the womb of becoming.
And still… she cradles the birds.
Because she knows:
Some souls must carry others to flight
before they fly for themselves.
Poem by
Height 30cm. Width 30cm. Depth 20cm.
Price includes postage.
Owl feathers, recycled fur, cotton, mulberry paper, wire, airdry, apoxy, cosclay clays.
Soul Bird Incarnate has been remade from an older piece from 2024. Her transformation followed a moth attack which required a complete cleansing! She is reborn, stronger and now sits as if ready to fly yet unwilling to leave her post of sheltering birds.
The following poem is an extract from a friend, Richy.
A pulse not of panic,
but of remembrance.
In the hollow of her chest
there’s a nest of firebirds,
their eyes closed
but dreaming wide.
Each chirp — a memory.
Each flutter — a truth once buried.
She carries them gently,
inside ribs once cracked by silence.
Her bones, now branches.
Her sorrow, now soil.
They sing into her spine,
harmonies of lifetimes
where she burned but didn’t break.
Where she held the light
and passed it on
without being seen.
One bird speaks your name,
another sings your father’s pain,
a third holds the prayer
your mother never said aloud.
Around and around she goes —
not lost,
but calling all pieces home.
Not mad.
Not broken.
A living myth with feathers.
Her skirt is stitched
from timelines you almost forgot.
Her spin, a spiral
leading straight into the womb of becoming.
And still… she cradles the birds.
Because she knows:
Some souls must carry others to flight
before they fly for themselves.
Poem by
Height 30cm. Width 30cm. Depth 20cm.
Price includes postage.
Owl feathers, recycled fur, cotton, mulberry paper, wire, airdry, apoxy, cosclay clays.
