They say those empty verses left on the register

will come back for you,

but what do they know

about music

the bridge never follows

as you traipse under its arched passageway

they don’t sing about the sparrows once they’ve

flown away for winter.

they don’t tell you when you throw a bottle out to sea

it doesn’t come back – the waves recede gently,

and with the tide’s return

dappled grey bubbles

lap at your toes,

echoes fading  crimson sunlight.