A Sparrow in the Bush

to capture a moment a picture never could... this moment transcends the space of time

Too often would we hear

the trilling of its voice between the cliffs, sweet song

like the blackberries ripening in

summer heat; fingers licked

and we still can’t get enough.

Juice stains bead, a prick of a needle and

stiff thorn bush ends ensnare a cotton cloud.

Fruit and fingers stained like bruises, black

and blue kisses by a mother’s tender lips that never soothe

the pain �" it is a rush, a whir.