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Chris Murray
Be near enough to the periphery
to discern the wing-settle-sounds
small birds make in thickets,
their halls —
Near enough for red to insist
that you regard it as haw,
rose-leavings
Know, bird-panic sounds
differently to wing-settle’s
soft-rest after the flurry of
flight,
they say —
It held —
Maybe there was no yarn
and you hung the bird-bell
from a delicate thread
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear the bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song he did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry.
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew.
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,