The bush with white flowers
is sometimes heavy
with the sound of bees
and the thrush
and the robin
and the blackbird
spill their song
like champagne
over-flowing
and even the rooks
make a comfortable sound
and children
in the playground
and the midnight bark
of the fox
and the fly insistent
against the window,
seeking light light light
and the lap of the ocean
on a shingle shore
and the green of a leaf
and a flower unfurling –
everything alive is singing
and I am singing – the blood
in my veins sings,
and my heart sings,
and my fingers sing
and the electric surges
of my nerves are songs
and the breath in my lungs
is a song is a song is a song
and I fear the silence.
Ingrid is hosting at earthweal. This is for her.
Sarah writes poems 