BIRDWOMAN Kieran Furey Way back in the fifties, it was said An old lady would come to the bird Market on Sunday mornings. Her head Bobbing on a stiff neck, pigeon-like On nifty feet she'd strut around, bid Beady-eyed for thrush, canary, shrike. Any bird left over at the end Would be bought by her. She pecked her purse Till it bled red ten-bob notes or worse. When the other customers had left She'd open all her cages and send Songsters skywards. Birdmen thought her daft But devil the damn she cared. Her aim Was liberation feathered freedom Made her big heart flutter. She gave wings To children's longings, weekly flew rings Round keys and locks and bars. All good things End. She died unringed and left no name.