Stained-glass blue day. But smoke, after a noise
from heaven, still drifts half a world away
over fallen houses. Soot-faced, the winged boys
turn for home, the word 'mission' still warm,
still pungent in the mouth. little wonder the sky,
when you lift your splitting head to its glare,
is heavy with questions, though ground here
is harrowed and seeded: sleek leaves, grass-blades
barely showing- just enough to say 'green'
in the blazing face of heaven. But- with
the spongy simmer of autumn still bubbling-
how can these migrant juncos have come
to our berried hedges and overhanging canopies
of leaf, their voices silver-tinkling mini-bells
of glass? And how, for reasons all
unspoken, can a few human voices hope
to hold the blood to some old promises?
Simple wishes for a post-war world of touch
in earnest, when- smoke cleared, cries died down-
snow covers the only ground left to stand on.