I was twelve when I murdered for silence.
The senile hero from number nine
trained me to shoot straight.
Silence played a deeper tune
than my father’s violin,
its bullets swifter and cleaner
than any note his dusty bow could fire.
So I shot this thrush in its hedge,
allowing it one last song -
the lullaby my mother sang,
my sister’s piccolo in flight …
before silencing it
and something else, forever.
I watched it fall through its cage,
the instinct to sing
still alive in its wings
then listened again.
A sea wind
bowed the field of reeds beyond.