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Julie Sampson

Outside


the branch-nests quiver in the greening bushes,

our garden’s chattering chorus uplifts its communal voice

Hosanna!

to soaring skies

whilst the resident robin dives

chittering his rift

into arbour’s clematis, clamouring for his audience.


Later, unfastening our iron gates,

we will meet again outside

hollering pans and clapping out our sorrowful hearts.


We have no resources left
to find lost gods up there,
no prayers fit for purpose.