Anna Wickham imagines faith not as an idea but as a small, living bird kept inside the heart. The bird feeds on sorrow, which immediately tells you that this is not a cheerful, easy faith. It survives by transforming pain. The speaker calls it a conjurer because it can pull something solid out of a ghost, as if faith gives shape and presence to what is barely there. When the bird swallows the harsh weeds of pain, it clears a little space for the speaker to return to ordinary life—tending a garden plot—and to wait for Hope. The mood is quiet and inward, touched by sadness but also by resilience. There is no triumph here; instead, faith is a fragile, necessary companion that makes suffering bearable and keeps a small patch of life open for something better. It doesn’t promise happiness; it just keeps the speaker going.
Faith — Summary
I KEEP a bird in my heart, He lives on sorrow, His name is Faith.
He is so quick a conjurer that he can borrow Flesh from a wraith.
He swallows the harsh weeds of pain And gives me scope, To tend my little garden-plot again And wait for Hope.