To Ann

Out on our walks we talk of the simplest things,
of days long ago when we were happy or sad,
of a wind that browbeats us in our meanderings,
or a seagulls’ dance as the light catches their wings.
But there is a conversation we have not had.
Out on our own, in with the wind and the birds,
something waits to be said that has no words.

We see the advent of an approaching cloud,
we see the flush of a suffused tree-shade,
we see a reed-parliament in a riverside crowd,
and we see a village church stand plain and proud.
But there is an observation we have not made.
There is a song and a wild blaze of colour
neither can ever point out to the other.

Out in the open we walk, and the moments of day
light and lovely, leave us with much to discuss.
I think they are magical moments, for in their way
they say all there is, and nothing is left to say.
But such a declaration is not for us.
An untold glory is near, passing along
even where we pass, two firebirds and one song.

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