The Sound of Heaven and The Number Seven

White feathers, whisky and the sound of heaven,
Bluebirds, silk and cheap perfume.
Burnt out candles, wilted roses and an empty room,
Shattered glass, a ticking bomb and the number seven,

Crisp white sheets and crimson droplets,
Broken floorboards and flickering flames,
The willow tree where we carved our names,
and hanging from a branch, a silver locket

A crumpled photograph and lock of hair,
teddy bears and unwritten dreams,
A hospital room and echoing screams,
flowers at a grave and the lord’s prayer

Shallow breathing, sunlight and sirens
a man on his knees in front of his wife,
and the gun in his hand as he takes his own life
a single teardrop, black feathers and silence.

© Tara-Kay Powney 5th June 2018