The Nest

In which I wrote a poem about a nest (that I did actually find, where I said I found it in the poem, and it really was that lovely.)

I found a nest
about the size of my hand
fallen to the ground in the park
around the Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum,
which contains artifacts from throughout
Hungarian history — starting
with the Neolithic, through Ottomans
and Hapsburgs to the twentieth
century, from flint tools to Soviet stars,
telling a story of migrations,
continual rebellions, numerous wars,
showcasing human ingenuity.

It had fallen, no doubt,
from one of the poplar trees.
It was empty — the nestlings
had already flown
earlier in the summer. But what artistry
their mother and father
had put into this small vessel,
this receptacle of their most precious
speckled eggs! How intricately
they had woven dried grasses,
small twigs, bits of string,
their own feathers, and covered it
with the fluff that falls
from poplar trees, like summer snow.
It was, as nests go,
a masterpiece.

I brought it home
because there was no place in the museum
for a bird’s nest, however Hungarian
the birds (which might, after all
have been migrants), however intricate
the artifact.

(The image is Bird’s Nest with Sprays of Apple Blossoms by William Henry Hunt.)

This poem was originally published on my poetry blog, here: “The Nest” by Theodora Goss