The SparrowGod after the flood
Is he a bird, the sparrowgod
Who sits, as these on trees?
While we look out from brickered nests
To spy a winter’s breeze?
And those who feed – the little one,
All fluffed from fledgling’s fears,
Of cold – wait warming in the wings
When sparrowgod appears.
It is an aural adventing –
His subjects gladly sing;
As we do, by our fire’s glow
Where all our children long for snow.
And just beyond the tree, where these,
Whose transport is the breeze,
A blue paint comfort shelter waits
To take us where we will, on wheels;
And then the house – the window star
But of us both it’s we who’re far:
The sparrows closer to their god,
Who shall not break his sacred oath;
Though they cannot afford the time,
To worship him in words that rhyme;
But neither they who swept away –
High tide – who’d blame a bird that day?
Both promises he always keeps:
The third flood from the tears he weeps:
The sparrowgod did watch his own:
Both beast and man who drowned at home.
For yea he sits: his throne – a tree –
God, bird and man at Calvary.