A Single Sparrow

In the king's hall, where, perhaps,

Feste frolics and plays the jackanapes,

whilst strings are plucked and whispers

concerning favourites and favours

rustle around the high and low tables,

a bird flies in.

Armour is leather and mail

and mostly loose

- or even discarded.

A battle is long or

recently over.

The air is thick

with ale and wood-smoke

The bird takes his brief refuge

from the winter's cruel grip:

Ice splinters fall flagward

becoming droplets

in the heat of the fire.

And out the bird flies,

wings flapping

a farewell of sorts.

What the bird knows

of the royal hall

is no more than

his experience

of it.

A bishop whispers,

“such is the time

of man on earth.”