SCINTILLA SONNET
(IN MEMORY OF BERYL ARMSTRONG)

We that write, make for ourselves another
Body and mind in which we live- always.
Our passing is the last and best seconds
Of the sun setting into the ocean.
There goes our president- walking away,
On Fridays, writing about sheep farming
In New Zealand- a panoramic sweep.
In our home a steam train waits at a gate
Hens peck, a dog barks, men chat, the woods pause.
There is a bruised and battered blackbird on
The lawn, bloodied tail feathers, yet
Bounding energetically, hunting worms
Whilst young speckled robins are whirring wings.
The birds sing best when their nest is broken.
© Charles Smith