Bone flute

Their music came through this bone,

by way of breath and dancing fingers;

made in their given time, before the light

slid down the tree trunks and soaked

back into loam and their notes, detained

for a while in the canopies of forests,

drifted away into the sky, like light smoke.

I am a bone flute too. I try to improvise

on their tunes, turning them to my times.

My songs will not hang for long in the air,

but I must play to honour them: their love,

their gift, their care — all of it now vanished.

And, stubborn in joy, I will throw my music

after theirs; into the same immense silence.