The plane and the blackbird
a cold bright sun
Two days to christmas
A first-quarter moon
At a good vantage-point
A small white coffin
Driven slowly uphill
From the cemetery gate
To the minimal grave
Fifty people attending
Unexpected collection
Of nettle-stung hearts
At a barely-lived dying
A shuffling past yews
Thoughts finding rhythm
A lightness that bred
From a silent aceptance
A red-arrowed plane
In single formation
Scissored the sky’s blue
Above the procession
Sagittarian arrow
A sizzling of fire
An unconscious dipping
Of wings in salute
To a baby whose burning
From birth to departing
Took thirteen fast days
From rain into sunshine
Till almost the hilltop
The hole with its mound
A circle of people
Shared its raw hollow
No vicar no service
A speaking of poems
Cotoneaster sprigs
Dropped into the grave
The red plane returned
Cut its own circle
Honoured the sunlight
And passed by the moon
From a treetop nearby
A sharp-singing blackbird
Trilled its objective
Gold-beaked lullay
The grave was filled in
The high hill deserted
And down in the valley
A rare christmas came
(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)