Leaves

The  trembling leaves hid  sparrows as they sang
We were silent,drowning in the sun
Reminding me of Cartmel and Grange sands

I turned the phone off. so no idler rang
In winter we forget that bright light  comes
The  shining leaves hid  sparrows as they sang

My parents had no garden and no land
But judging by fertility,some fun!
I wish we were all down  on Grange’s sands

I remember holding Dad’s thin hand
He put me on his shoulders and we ran
He  knew  the words to all old Irish songs

He was tall and  made of smoke a friend
Then he went away to be God’s son
I wish we  still  were playing on the sands

In theology ,I have no hand
Do we need to know  where God has gone?
Can even experts  hear what angels sing?

The theologians   meanly note  their ends
Bishops in their robes  are  tried and stand
The   pure white  flowers  are scented as birds sing
Haunting me with  childhood,Grange O’ Sands