Wren

Wren leads the charge, her small soldier heart. Follow her flitting sound into the lowest corridors

This is not a universe, It is a garden. Trees, a hierarchy of halls, halls, a universe to sing.

Follow wren’s sound into the lowest corridors. There, a huge gap, fox -made, is where blackbirds sing.

Stone-plateaued, daisy garlanded, ground-held.

Tree looms above it all. All descends to metaphor. Here, A leaf fallen is always a poem. This is a place for birds.

Wren wingtips an ancient hedge leading us into her halls always up, and up, she flies fleeing into clematis’ swing rope.

Still, I hear her song— Clematis petals fall, this is a place for birds.