We met
          under a shower
of bird-notes.
          Fifty years passed,
love’s moment
          in a world in
servitude to time.
          She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
          closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
          ‘Come,’ said death,
choosing her as his
           partner for
the last dance. And she,
           who in life
had done everything
           with a bird’s grace,
opened her bill now
           for the shedding
of one sigh no
           heavier than a feather.

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Y. J. Hall

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