Fiona Owen
Brother Francis
for Gavin
We buried the bird and believed that God
was crying with us, for the rain lasted
only as long as the ceremony, which you led
with your pocket-sized Psalms.
Serious we were, circle of bowed heads,
hair school-parted, breakfast not yet.
Mummy, why? we wept: broken bird in a soily grave.
She looked to you, small boy, as we all did –
for when you read, your words lit the grey morning,
making the small death matter.
Page(s) 21
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