The trembling leaves hid sparrows as their sang

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