My wings are brown, not black and shiny.
I'm always peeping out through leaves.
I try and keep above the fear trilling below,
I know they are ingesting bitter roots.
And yet I swallow their song all the same.
The empty smoke of hope that arises,
as I am the Blackbird mother sitting,
gathering material and protecting you,
refined in pointless expectation.
I am a gust of failure that ruins,
...

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version without the Welsh folklore

Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls all walkers home

but we pass u...

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