…of the 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