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,
Tuesday 18th June 2019 4:00 pm
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...
Wednesday 6th June 2018 3:14 pm