Child

This poem is included in my book Watching the Moon Landing.

Child

You notice things, it's true: 
the wren that hasn't built 
a nest to welcome spring, 
the trees blown into trees
aslant, across the hill; 
our lowered words of war.

You sense our fear, and ask 
why we can only see 
and hear through misted glass. 

You notice things, it's true: 
we may not be at war, 
but through that clouded glass 
we hear the silence in  
an unfamiliar key 
and - as you quietly say - 
the sky's a restless blue.