Tag Archives: bird song

Spring Song

Spring Song

Bird spring song, printed on the air,
pitched too fine and high for attempts at translation.
It is heard in notes not words, that is why.
Is music not speech, signals not conversation.
Still, as a playful test, I attend to one bird,
piping outside my window, in the bush behind the shed,
and try to translate its song into human tongue:
Marga-reet, Marga-reet, join me here, it seems to say.
Your singing lesson is due.
Come, quick as a gull flies after a fish.
I cannot cancel your singing lesson.
Come to me, promptly, speedily.
Converse with me, in my tubular song space.
I never ask for much, please grant my wish.
Rejoice with me in this fresh time
of nest building, chick feeding.
Marga-reet, cherish the choral way we always had.
Summer soon, long winter gone.
Spring brings our kin of feather and wing
to flutter and sing on the wind ways.
Add your notes to our knitted song screen.
Marga-reet, hear my call.
I am impatient to chirp beside your lovely form.
Universal unison, eternal essence,
I sing in the cleansed air.
Our twittering, chattering lines have no conclusion.
Winter’s great grandfather wisdom
buds in the green brain of the spring child,
born to grow to be the youth of summer,
who will mature to muse on wood and water,
clad in autumn’s leafy cloak.

Advertisements

Know How To Vanish

Know How To Vanish

Japanese theatre.
Odd it came to my mind,
sat in my kitchen chair,
to all else shuttered and blind.
An art I know nought about.
The actors look and move on stage,
like puppets with no strings,
hid by costumes, masks,
some peer over fans,
so I remember
from an Oriental drama shown on a screen.
Outside my window,
a bird tirelessly sings,
delights, distracts.
If I were a squirrel,
I would live in a pine tree,
hoard and eat nuts,
sleep under leaves,
glare at an owl,
to say in my way,
hoot elsewhere,
in a far off part of the forest,
so I can sleep in peace.
The owl may obey me,
flutter away, to hoot in some other tree.
I would be quick, alert, know how to vanish.

Spring’s Dawn

Spring’s Dawn

Winter’s back’s broken.
What it lacks snapped its spine.
Its frosty claw lost its clutch,
cracked as seed and shoot
makes white bone green.
Not right to say for joy,
to impose human emotion on them,
but the gathering of starlings
in my back garden bush,
it is good to hear them sing.
A low croak from the pond,
but when I looked I saw no frog.
Maybe next week I will see one,
hopping and leaping on the lawn.
The sun rises higher now,
sheds a warmth that thaws.
Safely I say, here’s spring’s dawn.