A Forgotten Memory

A hollow, crested pigeon sits at roost,
With its pompous blue breast and blue crest.
Yet with all it can boast,
It cannot leave its glass cabinet, gathering dust.
Its feathers – gentle pinks, pale yellows,
Like blooming springtime flowers,
Will sadly not last,
After present is past.
Once upon a time,
As a secret water whistle,
It twittered and chirped with great hype,
Just the size of a child’s fist - eight years old to be exact.
The hues on porcelain cannot be broken,
They cannot be stolen.
They are forgotten,
Those childhood memories of mine.