birds

Liturgy

the western sky burns a barren flame
and chases home the robin cold
the eastern wind sees off the day
its hours now burnished into gold
high in the branches of the beech
dark in his winter’s livery
a lonely brambling sings aloud
his hope of heaven’s liturgy.

First Breaths

In choral turns their pleas are heard
the weary finch, the proud blackbird
round robin bold, shy hatch and hen
a starling insecure, and wren
from song to song and tree to tree
no ear can match this symphony
nor pen, nor pipe or soft tapped string
could hope to vie with feathered things.

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.

After Darkling

you were the end of all things true
and in your song was beauty found
for it had winged the full year through
yet lies now lifeless on the ground
but such feathered souls as yours
remain beyond the darkest pale
the passage of our dying years
dare not loose the endless veil
so though you fly to no new spring
sadness does not my heart scar
as joyous memories still ring
and will for always be a part
of me, ….
…. as this last winter burns
away, and into new life turns.

Wren

may I call you wren?
for of all the little birds
you take flight alone

Quiet Hedgerows

December hedgerows dark
cold and without life they seem
yet they beat and fly and wing
beyond any midwinter’s dream
of a summer birdcall fancy
for these short days still have their lot
and though the songs are quiet now
their melodies are not forgot,
so grieve not the silent passerines
as after winter follows spring
surely as morning clears the night
and in that dawn the birds will sing