The sirens don’t stop wailing
in harmony with humans
as fatigue flames down the streets,
red and raw and indigo;
an inferno where faces
I know are now folks I knew,
even though we were strangers.

Ten long years ago I held
a dying magpie robin
with hands that felt like hammers,
and a chest that felt like bones
of a small black and white bird,
hollow beneath all the shine.
Strong, wispy grey tendrils choked
my throat for a week after.
A lit candle, a dug grave
were mere motions I’d hoped would
heal her powerful wings to
fly away into blue skies.

I dreamt about her last night
till I was awoken by
ambulance wails at midnight.
When two thousand and twenty
technicoloured sheep failed,
the cracked window panes brought in
a mild ray of cold sunlight.
In the greyscale dreams, the bird
flapped her wings and flew away.