for Neil McKellar
A bird is singing
in the tall trees
over and over the same
liquid notes spilling over
the dug earth. A requiem,
perhaps, for the soul that is
gone into the sunlit morning.
Quiet words. Dust. The green
of the grass of this spring
surrounds the stones
as an old man is taken
home and the angel announces
to the startled girl
that a new life will come and be
God and the bird is joined
by all his fellows in a
sudden chorus of pure joy.
C.M.M. 25 March 2011
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