'If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing
bird will come.' A prayer of sorts,
charm for the good one, murmured into the wind,
day by tossing day.
There they go, a skyful at random, trying
the blue acres, miming the risen:
shearwater, brolga, avocet, tern, rosella--
bugling, whistling, calling.
'A bird does not sing because it has an answer,
It sings because it has a song.'
Happy at sixty. Good for the company, bless
The blackbird on your bough. -- Peter Steele
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Posted by Jim McD at 1:24 PM