Perched upon the green, a smart black peer of feathered kind,
He captures my attention with his catching gold rimmed eye.
As I focus in more closely, steps a strut that’s fine and lairy
And fastens skyward coyly with a song that’s quite contrary.
He’s vanished to a hollow in the nestle of the hedgerow,
Seems he can’t have gone far, yet his form doesn’t show.
From a close dark arbor sings a song sweet and mellow,
Dripping like mead from a beak of golden yellow.
“Come away! Come away! From this garden tamed
By the creosoted fence and the wrought iron gate,
Where round about the table the winged folk squawk and flutter,
Scuffle for the berries and splutter in the water.
Come away! Come away! From this confined country
With the bird that wakes the dead and sends the living off to sleep.
Come away! Come away! From this world that slowly turns
To one of moving spirits that is plentiful in worms.”