A WARBLING
A single note reaches
you at last, follows through
the verandahs and painted
weatherboards like your
mother once called you,
sung your name and you are
three years old again yet
far older, further, although
memories of that magpie
you told your kids of warbles
in the rain as if the liquid alerts
you to unsung remembering
of games you chanted for 'her'
using clinking glass as marbles
in the old harmonies she joined
like its was some ritual warbling.
W.D.K.
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