In the night I dream you are an orchestra of penny whistles
house martin chatter, gentle cawing of sea birds calling days
to their close. I map swift flight precisely, trust it knows its path.
I long for you to tell me how you still sing despite us, that you
still have things you want to say, that in the storm of our unending
noise you wish and long for louder lungs. We are all drowned
in the concrete sometimes, ears strained and searching for
your penny whistle songs. I swell with disappointment when I
cannot tune in, miss your well-strung notes and grieve.