The Question
When you came home
you were flying high
chattering on about
all the lovely wild birds you had seen.
I was writing and nodding
not really listening,
just surfing
the harmonic waves of your words.
Eventually you fell silent.
Then - in a small voice:
“Do you think I am boring?”
The dusk began to paint an obituary.
Within a harrowing silence
a child's angry fist
began to beat upon my heart.
A hundred beautiful images of your
charmed and spontaneous nature
immediately broke
the thin ice of my mind.
I got up and sat next to you,
reached for your hand,
- my speech thick
with the weight of remorse:
“Tell me about the birds again."
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