Bylines ring hollow. Strike a match,
it could not light darkness at the marrow
where dreams sputter out with the loss of a Sparrow
who might have flown higher on wings of his own.
Three wraps left to sell in Januarys bonebite hail
his clothes no longer dripped, conjoined with Winter,
crystallised in a dirty yellow glaze; an unforgiving tale.
Fingers, swollen as if long drowned, fumble with polythene
eyes pleading for another mark; only three wraps left.
Blue-black, blue-black a wail of loss
louder than approach of sirens.
You and I will never know the beat of that small
feathered breast floating on the styx.