The Sparrow

Outside my ancient window

The tiny sparrow

Awakens to the morning

As if released

From endless hibernation

He soars

In voice

On wing

To venerate

And adulate

The rekindling

Of the flame

Seeking ever joyfully

The nectar of the day

Despite the touch of death

In each leaf

That falls

From trembling boughs

And the early frost

The icy fingers

That chill him

To his marrow

The sparrow

This tiny sparrow

His song

Uninterrupted

Is gently roused

From his womblike nest

His cheerful tune

A joyous tapestry

Of shining

Sparrow dreams

Misinterpreted

As a blossoming

Regardless

That the fickle hand of time

Is turning the days

And seasons over

Heedless

Of the rituals of darkness

Before the light

And the days

Nearer to death

Than to life

Thunder sounds

In the encroaching darkness

That is ever relentless

The candles flicker

At dusk

And the trees

Like bony fingers

Are scratching

On the panes

Yet the sparrow

The tiny sparrow

With his pretty song

Casts the circle

In the waning light

Deceptively fleeting

Like wishes

On the wind

© Ann Bagnall 2014.