Bullet Hole Bird

Bullet hole bewitched your voice,

Your finder reasoning.

‘Let’s get you well again, let’s get you well’,

All around him;

‘Let’s get you well again.’ he said.

Hold the wounded summer bird.

All the broken feathers,

You want to sew them back together like

The health that can delude my senses.

Sense of longing for the blue.

Warm arms; don’t let her face

The cold, the winter,

The man on Sunday’s countryside

With destiny’s gun shimmering

In yellow light.

‘It is your sky’ he said,

As young fingers stroke the down,

Fixed with love intent.

She has tears today

To be parted from his arms.

And away she flies.

Skies singing songs of spring;

His voice was sweeter, she recalls,

As Sunday’s bullet found her breast

And the green that held her red

Sang its soft farewell to breath.

Too late, he found her death.

‘Let’s go home again, let’s get you home’,

As autumn fell;

‘Let’s get you well again’, he said.