“In the dark times. Will there also be singing?"

When the locust plague has overrun the crops, and the plague has torn through bodies,
when pestilence and war have had their fill.
The Italians dance on balconies and the British clap in doorways
Will there be singing still?

When we can no longer greet our neighbours
Or tightly hold our friends
Will we remember the soft touch of comfort
Will there be singing at the end?

When the lamb turned lion opens seals
and chaos is freed to reign
with our eyes set on sword, famine, wild beasts and plague,
Will we hear the singing again?

Poseidon’s seafoam creations carry our demise
Creation’s four inverted
We can sing but we will wonder
Which will be our final verses.

Famine’s hooves on earth well-trod he visits countries oft’
His black horse troughs through the non-arable ground
and though our stomachs may gurgle and scoff
Our voices are much more pleasant for sound.

When sword-slain soldiers lay bereft
and war-torn villages join in death
soft-footed children cry over wrinkled faces
it is they who’ll sing with final breath

I meet her sigh with tear tracked eyes,
And weary death offers a hand
I begin to protest I had so much to do
With my life, so much was planned

I ask her if I was permitted last words
and then she nods in answer
A teary tune escapes my lips as I ask her
Will there still be singing after?

She moves her finger to tilt my chin
And wipes away stray tears
with a mothering smile, she parts her lips
‘Of course, there will be singing my dear’