Unfinished Birdsong

the throstle wakes
as so must I it seems
her song invades
yet not disturbs my dreams
there may be clouds
uncertain in the dawn
yet the song thrush
seems to minds not
and greets the coming morn,
but will her lover
duet to her cries
soulful from the barest trees
beneath these youngest skies
or has the night before them
driven death’s dark veil
between her plaintive arias
sung sweet to no avail.