Sparrow


Rituals of darkness

Outside my ancient window
a 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
the early frost
the icy fingers
that chill him to his marrow
the sparrow
this tiny sparrow
his song uninterrupted
gently roused from his 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
nearer to death than to life
thunder sounds in the ever relentless
encroaching night
candles flicker at dusk
and 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

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