Small Lives

The house martins
Here in their Adobe nests,
With such fervent endeavour
Furnish their home
With feathers
For their precious eggs.
Then came the day
When four tiny heads
Reached above the nest rim,
Eager with open mouths,
Thrusting with zest to live.
Each day some change.
The growth of feather stubs.
The spreading wings.
Then suddenly a morning
With but two small beaks
Above the nest rim.
And there upon the ground,
A small limp body
That had been full
Of eagerness to live.
All thrusting zest
Now dead.
And as I look
Upon the tiny form,
My heart remembers
Those small lives,
Sometimes in bent
Or premature bodies,
Who do not fall
Dead from the nest,
But survive among us.
Those kids with bright eyes,
And often crooked smiles,
Who live,
Smaller and less robust,
But in some ways
Still with zest.
I remember too,
My own small self,
Born too early,
Yet cherished,
And sixty five years later
Standing here
Before this small lost life,
To shed a tear
For its passing.

Copyright ©2002 Tony Crisp