In the dread of the night
a bird sings.
From the world beyond sight
something springs.
And ribbons of satin
flash colour and pattern –
I reach out, clutch inwards
and cling.
But this flight of the Spirit
won’t be held
in hands grasped too tight
for its spell.
Hope’s quicksilver flicker
will shimmer and shiver,
while the song that it sings
won’t be quelled.
So I listen so close
in the dark
while the mopoke calls back
to the lark.
Old sadness and sorrow
soon lifts on the morrow
and sweet birdsong
will herald its path.
© Sharonne Price March 2018