Away in the wind
Drifts all manner of things
To the tune of woodwinds
And softly plucked strings
Murmurs of small voices
As they drift off to sleep
And their parents’ rejoices
As they fall in a heap
Silent little prayers
Made with closed little lips
To ward off nightmares
And maybe the apocalypse
Distant unheard screams
And the final groans
Of little ones in the streams
And unmotherly crones
Away in the wind
Drifts all manner of things
To the tune of woodwinds
And softly plucked strings
Hastily-Made Decision 