The distress in the voice of the woodpigeon
gives it a human cadence, its song
a disembodied embrace of all the grief
to come, or that has been.
For a spell, it dries, as if the tears began,
but it resumes as the night continues
into morning. Ah, morning! Was there ever
a sadder word? Or a more fitting bird?
On the very day it was proven that William Shakespeare’s grave had been disturbed soon after burial, I purchased Oliver, my lovely green parrot. A strange coincidence, for I came to believe that Oliver was the reincarnation of the Bard himself. Continue reading “Shakespeare’s Other Grave”
Robin’s found his lyrics;
flexes all his toes.
Sings! This little heart-throb.
Sings! The season’s rose. Continue reading “The Season’s Rose”
Am I alive? Does the mountain,
from which the loose stone falls,
Does the mountain move?
Massive, impassive, I observe Continue reading “To a Robin on a Bird Table”
My city rage is calmed by my escape:
The traffic’s groan is fading into larks,
And all the world seems rounder in its shape
As I slow my soul to walk through Cofton Park. Continue reading “Up the Lickeys”
The sassy skylark, spangling in the sky:
A star is born whose song will never die. Continue reading “The Sassy Skylark”