January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968
I wish that I could sing
a song so strong
your dream would seem
to have returned to life
on streets
where blackbirds thrill
and arms are bent
against the ring of a call to prayer.
You sit on the right side of an angel’s wing
You rise with horned larks
across farmlands, prairies, deserts, and golf courses.
I have a song
that waits to be sung
the day a choir is born
surrounded by mixed fruits,
blackcurrants, redberries, dark chocolates, and meringues.
Martin Luther King
you’ve never slept,
always an eye forever,
a tooth ready for the call,
ready for the Promised Land.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 