25 May 2012



In my mind's eye
he lies, sad small bundle,
amongst the wildflowers,
on a bank of grief and death.
He was a skylark,
rising into the air,
singing of his love
to his love, in notes
as clear and bright
as a mountain stream,
sweet like swansdown   
drifting across a lake.

Heaven listened, and
reached down to earth.

Bored with the day,
a boy with an air gun
turned upwards to the sky,
fired an aimless shot.
A pure high note
lingered on the air,
but the singer fell,
a broken leaf fluttering down
to his fragrant flowery bier,
his ragged silhouette
tinged with morning glory.

His song was done.