Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Though it’s sometimes nurtured by the naming of birds,

mine’s not “a thing with feather’s”, but more like measured

footfall on a slow walk to the hide, the moon a crescent

in morning sky, putting one foot in front of another towards

the promise of a stillness, which is more like hovering,

the way a hummingbird hovers, fifty wing-beats per second,

savouring moments of colour, collecting nectar in small sips,

playing a part in the bigger picture of survival. It is after all

what I leaned on, this habit, this year when every month seemed

to bring bad news and I held my breath waiting for results

of one kind or another. You see, my dad taught me years ago:

even when there’s no cure in sight, when the pain has invaded

your bones and your leg can’t press the clutch, you don’t give up,

you swap your manual gears for automatic and keep on driving.