So then, we are gathered again,
resting our glasses on uneasy wooden slats,

lovers, friends, infants and song,
the word made flesh in these faces.
Sweet guitar, barman shaking ice,
so much longing
and reward.

House sparrows, invasive here,
can’t help themselves, join the chorus.

In Palestine children died today,
Tennis racket against tear gas,
so much to bear, so much to love.
Everywhere.

Though in this minute, the perfect rose light,
Prosecco and poetry,
mention of that beast, still slouching along.
It can be too much for anyone, this rich
and sorrowful world.

And yet these sparrows,
Catholic themselves,

a promise of resurrection,

still singing.

For Snapdragon friends & Peter Mulvey