save for one feathery vapour scar,
the sky calls mutely, ‘Please, forget me not,
but let me be. Give me this quiet time
to rest and heal.’
Still a distant drone of cars
(but fewer than before)
jars (but just sporadically)
against the tranquil madrigal
of blackbirds, sparrows, collared doves.
They trill and chirrup, coo and tweet:
my fractured soul begins to knit and heal.
The fevered, wheezing earth, so long
infected by the virus of our greed
may breathe a little easier a while;
a brief respite, not looked for but
much needed brings
a ghost of healing on the breeze.
No comments:
Post a Comment