poetry and prose webzine
the branch-nests quiver in the greening bushes,
our garden’s chattering chorus uplifts its communal voice
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.