A sorrowful quiet is falling.
And yet the birds still try to sing,
their heads thrown back towards the sky.
Swallowing thickening cloud their throats open,
their voice piercing,
the stillness of quiet song booming.
They remember the precious note,
the one before the melancholy;
The soft melody that was the hymn of hope,
when gentle music swayed and budding petals fluttered,
a fledgling sheltered in a mother’s unending love.
And now those tiny wings fly forth on a stolen silence,
their empty hush embracing with a tender kiss,
their warm caress protecting,
blurring the eternal edges of that place
between here and now.
Sweet child, sing forever.
For my grandson Tommy, 17.07.12
Margot McCuaig 