in Sunday best the whole week long
he skips and sings his sweetest song
a spirit lifting springtime praise
from dawn to dusk on golden days.

though nightingales may poems ply
and starling choirs raise the skies
no muse’d soul can be compared
nor evoke life’s joy as this blackbird.

Untitled Notes on Writer’s Block

there is silence save birdsong
and darkness save this shaded light
there’s a blank white page before me
that waits on me to write,

there are no thoughts within me
save those I have of you
how can I them in conscience fair
with meagre words imbue.

so I hear beyond the silence
and drift into the dark
to set my pen in readiness
before I make my mark.