Nest

I lie in bed, caressed by warm down.
Outside, rain in ice ink night.
My sparrow sleeps, his hollow bones,
light balsa, made for flight,
not made for England's winter bite.
I lie in bed, caressed by warm down.

A violet sky, of song and gentle moon.
Inside, rain of needle fire.
My sparrow sleeps, makes best of his bed of wire
and dead feathers, his tomb.
A violet sky, of song and gentle moon.

The hospital, yellow lit at four.
Humans helping humans.
Retirement from work, plentiful food, warm down.
My sparrow dreams of dry, as I drown.
I hear the rain sound.
The hospital, yellow lit at four.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.