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.
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.
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.
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.
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