In the dread of the night


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

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