save for one feathery vapour scar,
the sky calls mutely, ‘Please, forget me not,
but let me be. Give me this quiet time
to rest and heal.’
Still a distant drone of cars
(but fewer than before)
jars (but just sporadically)
against the tranquil madrigal
of blackbirds, sparrows, collared doves.
They trill and chirrup, coo and my
fractured soul begins to knit and heal.
The fevered, wheezing earth, so long
infected by the virus of our greed
may breathe a little easier a while;
a brief respite, not looked for but
much needed brings
a ghost of healing on the breeze.
