Sport 42: 2014
The lark—we could see it—flew over
The heads of the mourners, zipping about.
Dew on its wings. Remarkable but also
Unpleasant—a bird loose inside a building.
When would it be freed? The undertaker—check if they’re
Still called that—missed the cue
And the CD played on, the lark
Flicked again into life, ascending grew stronger,
More crazed. Some people turned.
Who would stop that bird? Who would say,
We know it was her favourite but enough
Ascending. The lark wasn’t worried. It was alive.
Then finally it was fading out. When music fades out
Rather than ends, what do we feel? That, as if called,
Regretful, thankful, we have walked from one room into another,
With the idea we might at any time return to the first room
And find a window open.