Living Sparks In The Dark Poem by Mark Heathcote

I surmise as only poets do.
Regrettably, it's a silly prophecy.
The world will undoubtedly collide
with its own -beginnings
then silence shall reign
supreme again, I surmise regrettably.

There'll be no more singing.
Joyous choirs shall be silent.
Even Kingdom Halls shall be shrill.
With no end or beginning
there'll be only- endless time to kill.

Endless as a mockingbird,
mocking us at his will
with his black wingspan stretched
across all that we have done
right across the entire Rio Grande
there'll be a death knell
overall, all we have come to understand.

On all except that mockingbird-
and his living sparks in the dark
regenerating like jellyfish in the foam and sand
with always something sifting from his left hand.
Something cherished lovingly in his right.
Beachcombing for something regrettably
he deems worthy of polishing in far distant sunlight.